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THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
WHAT hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells ?
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious Main ! Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow coloured shells,
Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain. Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea !
We ask not such from thee.
Yet more, the Depths have more !—What wealth untold,
Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies!
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.
Earth claims not these again!
Yet more, the Depths have more !
-Thy waves have rolled Above the cities of a world gone by! Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry ! Dash o'er them, Ocean! in thy scornful play,
Man yields them to decay !
Yet more! the Billows and the Depths have more !
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle-thunders will not break their rest. Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave !
Give back the lost and lovely !_Those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long ; The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom.
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song ! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,
-But all is not thine own!
To thee the love of woman hath gone down;
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
Yet must thou hear a voice_Restore the Dead !
Restore the Dead, thou Sea ! New Monthly Magazine.
SILENT and lone, beneath the cypress bough,
She sat and watched the circlets of the night, As, imaged on the waveless stream below,
They beamed again to heaven serenely bright !
She felt her dream of happiness was gone;
But Hope, still lingering, shed its heavenly ray, Like the fair star that in those waters shone
Still bright, though they were gliding fast away.
Her bosom had been stained in passion's hour,
But she had wept on it her frailties past, And, like the sullied lily by the shower,
It had been washed and purified at last.
Those long dark lashes, beaded still with tears
The warm rose blanched upon her sunken cheekThe lip, which pallid as that rose appears,
Seemed well her silent penitence to speak.
Her's was the heart's still prayer :-her lips were sealed.
Those meek eyes, glancing to their kindred heaven, In dewy orisons her soul revealed :
She asked not--but she looked to be forgiven. Literary Gaxette.
H. A. D.
A POETICAL SKETCH.
We met in secret :-mystery is to love
Once pined with unrequited love, and sighed
:- none came.
Why dwell I on these memories ? Alas,
Of my so worshipped ROSALIE !
L. E. L.
THE VILLAGE CHURCH.
And is our country's father fled,
His car of fire can none recall ? Be-here-his sacred spirit shed,
Here—may his prophet mantle fall. Fain would I fill the vacant breach,
Stand where he stood the plague to stay ; In his prophetic spirit preach,
And in his hallowed accents pray.
It is not that on seraph's wing,
I hope to soar where he has soared ;This is the only claim I bring,
I love his church, I love his Lord. I love the altar of my sires,
Firm as my country's rocks of steel; And as I feed its sacred fires,
The present deity I feel.
I love to know that, not alone,
I meet the battle's angry tide ; That sainted myriads from the throne
Descend and combat at my side. Mine is no solitary choice,–
See, here, the seal of saints impressed ! The prayers of millions swell my voice; The mind of
I love the ivy-mantled tower,
Rocked by the storms of thousand years; The Grave, whose melancholy flower
Was nourished by a martyr's tears, The sacred Yew, so feared in war,
Which, like the sword to David given, Inflicted not a human scar,
But lent to man the arms of heaven.