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SHIPWRECK.

THE frown of the night storm had scarcely blown by,
And the ocean was still in its roar;

The wind had not ceased from disturbing the sky,
When I ventured to walk on the shore.

I looked to the sea, and a wreck had been tossed
On the breakers that foamed from beneath;
And bodies still throbbing were washed on the coast,
And lay grouped in the stillness of death.

I sought from among the pale corpses around
For some symptoms of life, but in vain ;
When I heard from a distance an indistinct sound
Of a voice that seemed uttered in pain.

"Farewell, thou vain world," it exclaimed with a sigh, Disregarded and slighted by thee,

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For my country I fought; for my country I die;
But that country has cared not for me.

"For thee, native England, my life I have spent,
And have spilt my best blood in thy wars;
And yet, though your missions so far have been sent,
You've neglected the souls of your tars.

"We were left on the brink of destruction to sleep And no voice has aroused us away:

No arm has outstretched to collect the poor sheep
That had wandered so blindly away.

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"And now I must go to the doom that I dread,
For ages that ever must roll,

With a life of iniquities heaped on my head,
For there's no man has cared for my soul!"

He ceased; and I sought him amongst the pale dead, While he yet had the hour to repent;

When a heart-rending groan, that yet thrills through my head,

Was the close of this hopeless lament.

On the cold shore extended, I found him at last,
But his spirit had ceased to be there;

His brow was still frowning, his hands were still clasped,
And he looked the mute form of despair.

Not far from his side lay a corpse on the sands,
Of a negro, yet wet with the foam;

Once a captive in yonder frail wreck, by his chains-
A poor slave torn away from his home.

But a smile had been left on his African face
Of a soul which had gone to its rest;

His arms were still crossed in the lifeless embrace
Of a volume that lay on his breast.

"Twas a Bible, that Christians of England had sent, And the Missions of England had given; "Twas that which had taught him in CHRIST to repent, And through faith to aspire to heaven.

I mourned at the contrast: the slave that lay there, With a smile of sweet hope on his face;

And the sailor, still black with the frown of despair, Beyond even death to erase.

One prayer, one desire, my full heart seemed to have,
That while England continued to look

To the darkness and guilt of the African slave,
She would give to her sailors the Book.

THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

BIRDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing, Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring? "We come from the shores of the green old Nile, From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, From the palms that wave through the Indian sky, From the myrrh trees of glowing Araby.

"We have swept o'er cities in song renowned, Silent they lie with the deserts round;

We have crossed proud rivers whose tide hath rolled
All dark with the warrior-blood of old;

And each worn wing hath regained its home
Under peasant's roof-tree or monarch's dome."

And what have ye found in the monarch's dome,
Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam ?
"We have found a change, we have found a pall,
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall,
And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt:
Nought looks the same, save the nests we built."

O, joyous birds! it hath still been so :
Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go;
But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep,
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep.
Say, what have ye found in the peasant's cot
Since last ye parted from that sweet spot?

"A change we have found there, and many a change!
Faces, and footsteps, and all things strange!
Gone are the heads of the silvery hair,

And those that were young have a brow of care; And the place is hushed where the children played : Nought looks the same but the nests we made."

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth,

Ye birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth!
Ye through the wastes of the trackless air,
Ye have a guide; and shall we despair?
Ye over desert and deep have passed,
So may we reach our bright home at last!

HEMANS.

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