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But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn;
While memory stood sideways half covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.

Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise;
Now far, far behind him the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,

And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall; All trembling with transport he raises the latch,

And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight;

His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear; And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast;
Joy quickens his pulses,-his hardships seem o'er;
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest,—
"O God! thou hast blest me,-I ask for no more."

Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound which now 'larms on his ear? 'T is the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the sky! 'T is the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere!

He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck;
Amazement confronts him with images dire;
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a-wreck;
The masts fly in splinters; the shrouds are on fire.

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell;

In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save;

Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,

And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave!

O sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight!

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss. Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright,— Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss?

O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again.

Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay; Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay.

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,
Or redeem form or fame 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 a bed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be laid,—
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.

Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll;
Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye,—
O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul!

WILLIAM DIMOND.

Old Grimes.

OLD GRIMES is dead; that good old man

We never shall see more;

He used to wear a long, black coat,

All buttoned down before.

His heart was open as the day,
His feelings all were true;
His hair was some inclined to gray,
He wore it in a queue.

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain,
His breast with pity burned;
The large, round head upon his cane
From ivory was turned.

Kind words he ever had for all,
He knew no base design;

His eyes were dark and rather small,
His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true;
His coat had pocket-holes behind,

His pantaloons were blue.

Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes

He passed securely o'er,
And never wore a pair of boots
For thirty years or more.

But good old Grimes is now at rest,
Nor fears misfortune's frown;

He wore a double-breasted vest-
The stripes ran up and down.

He modest merit sought to find,
And pay it its desert;
He had no malice in his mind,
No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbors he did not abuse,
Was sociable and gay;

He wore large buckles on his shoes,

And changed them every day.

His knowledge, hid from public gaze,
He did not bring to view,

Nor make a noise town-meeting days,
As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw

In trust to fortune's chances,
But lived (as all his brothers do)
In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturbed by anxious cares
His peaceful moments ran;

And everybody said he was

A fine old gentleman.

ALBERT GORTON GREENE.

The Closing Year.

'T Is midnight's holy hour,-and silence now

Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er

The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds
The bell's deep tones are swelling,—'t is the knell
Of the departed year. No funeral train

Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood,
With melancholy light, the moon-beams rest
Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred
As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud
That floats so still and placidly through heaven,
The spirits of the seasons seem to stand,-

Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form,
And Winter with its aged locks,—and breathe,

In mournful cadences that come abroad

Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail,
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year,

Gone from the Earth forever.

'T is a time

For memory and for tears.

Within the deep,

Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim,
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold
And solemn finger to the beautiful

And holy visions that have passed away,
And left no shadow of their loveliness
On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts
The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love,

And, bending mournfully above the pale,

Sweet forms, that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has passed to nothingness.

The year

Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow,
Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course,
It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful,-
And they are not. It laid its pallid hand
Upon the strong man,—and the haughty form
Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim.
It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged
The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail
Of stricken ones is heard where erst the song
And reckless shout resounded.

It passed o'er

The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield,
Flashed in the light of midday,-and the strength
Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass,
Green from the soil of carnage, waves above
The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came,

And faded like a wreath of mist at eve;
Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air,

It heralded its millions to their home

In the dim land of dreams.

Remorseless Time!

Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe!—what power

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