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64 THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY.

Our voice in theirs through time shall swell—

The bard hath gifts of prophecy from death.

He dies—but yet the mountains stand,
Yet sweeps the torrent's tide,
And this is yet Aneurin's* land—

Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride.

* Aneurin, a celebrated ancient British bard.

THE WRECK.

ALL night the booming minute-gun
Had peal’d along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun
Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep.
A bark from India's coral strand,
Before the raging blast,
Had vail'd her topsails to the sand,
And bow’d her noble mast.

The queenly ship !—brave hearts had striven,
And true ones died with her—
We saw her mighty cable riven,
Like floating gossamer.
We saw her proud flag struck that morn,
A star once o'er the seas—
Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn,
And sadder things than these.

We saw her treasures cast away—
The rocks with pearls were sown,
And strangely sad, the ruby's ray
Flash'd out o'er fretted stone.
And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er,
Like ashes by a breeze—
And gorgeous robes—but oh that shore
Had sadder things than these !

We saw the strong man still and low,
A crush'd reed thrown aside—
Yet by that rigid lip and brow,
Not without strife he died.
And near him on the sea-weed lay—
Till then we had not wept,
But well our gushing hearts might say,
That there a mother slept!

For her pale arms a babe had prest,
With such a wreathing grasp,
Billows had dash'd o'er that fond breast,
Yet not undone the clasp.
Her very tresses had been flung
To wrap the fair child's form,
Where still their wet long streamers clung,
All tangled by the storm.

And beautiful 'midst that wild scene,
Gleam'd up the boy's dead face,
Like Slumber's, trustingly serene,
In melancholy grace.
Deep in her bosom lay his head,
With half-shut violet eye—
He had known little of her dread,
Nought of her agony

Oh! human Love, whose yearning heart,
Through all things vainly true,
So stamps upon thy mortal part
Its passionate adieu-
Surely thou hast another lot,
There is some home for thee,
Where thou shalt rest, remembering not

The moaning of the sea!

A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND.

His very heart athirst
To gaze at Nature in her green array,
Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd
With visions prompted by intense desire;
Fair fields appear below, such as he left
Far distant, such as he would die to find—

He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more.

Cowper.

THE hollow dash of waves —the ceaseless roar !

Silence, ye billows—vex my soul no more

There's a spring in the woods by my sunny home,
Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam;
Oh! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear,
As a song from the shore to the sailor's ear.
And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws,
Through the feathery fern, and the olive boughs,

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