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The clamorous burst of joy. But some there were
Whose joy was voiceless as their late despair
Whose heaven-ward eyes, clasped hands, and streaming cheeks,
Did speak a language which the lip ne'er speaks !
O, he were heartless, in that passionate hour,
Who could not feel that weakness hath its power,
When gentle woman, sobbing and subdued,
Breathed forth her vow of holy gratitude,
Warm as the contrite Mary's, when—forgiven-
An angel smiled, recording it in heaven!

IV.

THE MORNING AFTER THE STORM.

O heavens! is't possible a young maid's wits
Should be as mortal as an old man's life?
Nature is fine in love: and where 'tis fine,
It sends some precious instance of itself
After the thing it loves.

HAMLET.

'Tis midnight. Eyeless Darkness, like a blind
And haggard witch, with power to loose and bind
The spirits of the elements at will,
Draws her foul cloak across the stars, until
Those Demons she invoked to vex the waves
Have dived and hid them in their ocean-caves :
And they are fled ;—though still the mighty heart
Of Nature throbs. And now that hag doth start
(Her swarth cheek turning pale in bitter spite)
For through her brow she feels the cold moonlight
Shoot like a pain, as on a western hill
The setting planet of the night stood still,
Just parted from a cloud. No more the blast
Wailed, like a naked spirit rushing past,
As though it sought a resting place in vain.-
The storm is lulled ; and yet it is a pain

To tell what wreck and ruin strewed the shore !
Each wave its freight of death or damage bore.
Here, stained and torn, a royal flag was cast ;
There lay a broken helm, a shattered mast ;
And oh, the saddest relic of the storm,
Yon wave conveys a seaman's lifeless form!

'Tis morn—the waning mists, with shadowy sweep,
Draw their cold curtains slowly from the deep.
'Tis morn—but gladness comes not with her ray!
The bright and breathing scene of yesterday
Is gone, as if that swift consuming wing
Had brushed the deep which smote Assyria's King,
And left his Host, like sear leaves, withering !
The sea swells full, but smooth_to Passion's thrill,
Though spent her tempest, heaves the young heart still ;
A bleakness slumbers o'er it-here and there
Some desolate hull, forsaken in despair,
Drives idly, like a friendless outcast thing
Which still survives the world's abandoning.
Where are her sails/her serried tiers' display-
Her helm-her wide flag's emblemed blazonry?
Her crew of fiery spirits,—where are they ?

Far scattered groups, dejected, hurried, tread
The beach in silence, where the shipwrecked dead
Lie stiff and strained. Among them (humbling thought !)
They seek their friends yet shrink from what they sought,
As on some corse the eye, recoiling, fell-
Though livid, swoll'n—but recognized too well!

A part, disturbed in spirit, breathless, pale
Her unbound tresses floating on the gale-
A Maiden hastened on ;across her way,
As though he slept, a lifeless sailor lay.
She paused, and gazed a moment—shuddered, sank
Beside that victim on the wave-washed bank-
Bent shivering lips to press his haggard cheek,
But started backward with a loathing shriek !

Fond wretch! thy half-averted eyes discover
The cold and bloodless aspect of thy Lover!

Their tale is brief. The youth was one of those
Who spurned the thought of safety or repose
Whilst Peril stalks the deep : where'er displayed,
The flag which sues for succour has their aid-
The foeman's or the friend's ;—no pausing then
To question who implore them—they are men !
A noble race and, though unfamed, unknown,
A race that England should be proud to own!
He, with a few as generously brave,
Had heard the death-wail rising from the wave,
And, in an ill-starred moment, sought to save.
The lifeboat reached the foundering ship-her crew
With greedy haste secured the rope it threw,
And in the wild avidity for life,
Rushed reeling in. Alas! that fatal strife
But sealed their doom ! the flashing billows roar
Above their heads--one pang-they strove no more!

He did not love unloved; for she who prest
That clay-cold hand so madly to her breast,
Believ'd his vows; and but for Fortune's scorn
Young Love had smiled on this their bridal morn!
But oh, his years are few who hath not felt
That, while we grasp, the rainbow bliss will melt ;
That hopes, like clouds which gleam across the moon,
Soon pass away, and lose their light as soon !
The weltering mass she folds, but yesternight
Heaved warm with life-his rayless eye was bright:
And she whose cheek the rose of rapture spread,
Raves now a maniac-widow'd, yet unwed,-
And reckless wanderings take the place of woe!
She fancies joys that glow not, nor can glow ;
Breathes in a visionary world, and weaves
A web of bliss_scarce falser than deceives
The reasoning heart; oft sings and weeps; and now
Entwines a sea-weed garland for her brow,

And says

it is a marriage wreathe. Meanwhile Her calm vague look will dawn into a smile, As something met her eye none else should see; She folds her hands, and bends imploringly To sue its stay ;-with wilder gesture turns, And clasps her head, and cries—“It burns, it burns !" Then shakes as if her heart were ice.

Not long The soul, the frame, could brook such bitter wrong:Beside her lover's

that distracted head Rests calm and palethe grave their bridal bed. Literary Gaxette.

SONNET

ON PARTING WITH HIS BOOKS.

BY WILLIAM ROSCOE, ESQ,

As one, who destined from his friends to part,
Regrets his loss, but hopes again, erewhile
To share their converse, and enjoy their smile,
And tempers, as he may, affliction's dart ;
Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art,
Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil,
I now resign you ! Nor with fainting heart;
For pass a few short years, or days, or hours,
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold,
And all your sacred fellowship restore ;
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers,
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,

And kindred spirits meet to part no more.
Gentleman's Magazine.

THE ARTIST'S STUDIO.

Beauty should be around the beautiful,
And these fine Arts live in an atmosphere
Of light surrounded by thrice delicate shapes
Of grace and love.

THE light came dim but beautiful, through blinds
Of the linked jessamine, which wooed the vine
With its white kisses ; and the fragrant air,
Bearing low music from the wind-touched harp,
Came floating through the room. By glimpses seen,
As o'er the lattices the moonlight played
And lighted up its waters, shone the lake,
With its white swans, like spirits, gliding on
Its isles of floating lilies; and its banks,
Where swept the graceful willows and the turf,
Silvered with dew and star-light spread beneath,
Dotted with clumps of gloomy cypresses,
Mixed with the fairer blossomed orange trees.
And far beyond, like shadowy thunder-clouds,
Rose high but distant hills; and over all
A soft and blue Italian sky,—the blue
That painters and that poet's love,—the blue
The lover worships in the maiden's eyes,
Whose beauty is their power and spell. And, like
Sweet incense to sweet shrines, dew-scented flowers
Filled up the casements ; roses, on whose leaves
The summer had just breathed; the buds of pearl
That are the myrtle's dower ; carnation stems,
Rich in their perfumed blushes—all were there
Looking and breathing June. The marble floor
Had not a spot, save two or three rich stains
Cast from the pictured roof, on which was told
The history of Aurora and her love,
The earthly Youth she wooed, and wooed in vain.
Oh, love is very constant ! 'Tis most cold,
Untrue, and heartless raillery, to say
That love's life is not longer than those flowers

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