No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge. On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid; Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away, Oh, sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul. DIMOND THE SPIDER AND THE BEE. WITH Viscous thread, and finger fine, Beneath the casement's pendant roof, When, lo! on sounding pinion strong, Enraged, he plies his buzzing wings, With dread, with gladness, with surprise, But as the spider came in view, With lengthened arms the snares he plied, And now with cautious steps and slow, The fabric breaks the cords give way; Shun vice's snares; but if you 're caught, Then, though your foe you cannot kill, ANONY MOUS DEATH-SONG OF OUTALISSI. "AND I could weep; "- the Oneida chief For by my wrongs, and by my wrath! (That fires yon heaven with storms and death,) Shall light us to the foe: And we shall share, my Christian boy! The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy! "But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Forbid not thee to weep :— "To-morrow let us do or die! But when the bolt of death is hurled, Its echoes, and its empty tread, Would sound like voices from the dead! "Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, A thousand warriors drew the shaft? - The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each moldering bone, Like me, are death-like old. Then seek we not their camp for there- "But hark, the trump! - to-morrow thou Amid the clouds that round us roll; He bids my soul for battle thirst, From Outalissi's soul; Because I may not stain with grief CAMPBELL DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM. THE king stood still "Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die! "Cold is thy brow, my son! and 1 am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, 6 Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet my father!' from those dumb And cold lips, Absalom! "But death is on thee; I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;— But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom! "And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom! "And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee! And thy dark sin!-oh! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom!" He covered up his face, and bowed himself WILLIS THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Not in shect nor in shroud we wound him ; Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone, But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; |