die on,

rung,

While careless sailors, ever cheery, On the mid watch so jovial sung,

With tempers labour cannot weary. I, little to their mirth inclined,

While tender thoughts rushed on my fancy,

And my warm sighs increased the wind,

Looked on the moon, and thought of
Nancy!

And now arrived that jovial night

When every true-bred tar carouses; When o'er the grog, all hands delight To toast their sweethearts and their spouses.

Round went the can, the jest, the glee, While tender wishes filled each fancy; And when, in turn, it came to me,

I heaved a sigh, and toasted Nancy:

Next morn a storm came on at four,
At six the elements in motion
Plunged me and three poor sailors more
Headlong within the foaming ocean.
Poor wretches! they soon found their
graves;

For me-it may be only fancy,-
But Love seemed to forbid the waves
To snatch me from the arms of Nancy!

Scarce winds and waves had ceased to attle,

When a bold enemy appeared,

And, dauntless, we prepared for battle. And now, while some loved friend of wife

Like lightning rushed on every fancy, To Providence I trusted life,

Put up a prayer, and thought of Nancy!

At last, 'twas in the month of May,-
The crew, it being lovely weather,
At three A. M. discovered day,

And England's chalky cliffs together. At seven up Channel how we bore, While hopes and fears rushed on my fancy;

At twelve I gaily jumped ashore,
And to my throbbing heart pressed
Nancy!

[THOMAS DIBDIN. 1771-1841.]

LOVE AND GLORY.

YOUNG Henry was as brave a youth
As ever graced a martial story;
And Jane was fair as lovely truth:

She sighed for Love, and he for Glory.

With her his faith he meant to plight,

And told her many a gallant story; Till war, their coming joys to blight,

Called him away from Love to Glory.

Young Henry met the foe with pride; Jane followed, fought !-ah, hapless story!

In man's attire, by Henry's side,
She died for Love, and he for Glory.

ALL'S WELL.
DESERTED by the waning moon,
When skies proclaim night's cheerless
noon,

On tower, or fort, or tented ground,
The sentry walks his lonely round;
And should a footstep haply stray
Where caution marks the guarded way:

They bid me seek in change of scene the charms that others see;

But were I in a foreign land, they'd find no change in me.

'Tis true that I behold no more the valley where we met,

I do not see the hawthorn-tree; but how can I forget?

For oh! there are so many things recall the past to me,—

The breeze upon the sunny hills, the billows of the sea;

The rosy tint that decks the sky before the sun is set ;

Ay, every leaf I look upon forbids me to forget.

Who will sing our songs to-night? Through the mist that floats above us Faintly sounds the vesper-bell,

Breathing fondly, Fare thee well i

When the waves are round me breaking,

As I pace the deck alone, And my eye is vainly seeking Some green leaf to rest upon; When on that dear land I ponder, Where my old companions dwell, Absence makes the heart grow fonderIsle of Beauty, fare thee well!

THE FIRST GREY HAIR.

THE matron at her mirror, with her hand upon her brow,

Sits gazing on her lovely face-ay, lovely

even now:

Why doth she lean upon her hand with such a look of care?

Why steals that tear across her cheek?— She sees her first grey hair.

Time from her form hath ta'en away but little of its grace;

His touch of thought hath dignified the beauty of her face;

Yet she might mingle in the dance where maidens gaily trip,

So bright is still her hazel eye, so beautiful her lip.

The faded form is often mark'd by sorrow more than years;

The wrinkle on the cheek may be the course of secret tears;

The mournful lip may murmur of a love it ne'er confest,

And the dimness of the eye betray a heart that cannot rest.

But she hath been a happy wife ;-the

lover of her youth

May proudly claim the smile that pays the trial of his truth;

A sense of slight-of loneliness-hath never banish'd sleep;

Her life hath been a cloudless one ;— then, wherefore doth she weep?

She look'd upon her raven locks ;-what

thoughts did they recall? Oh! not of nights when they were deck'd for banquet or for ball;They brought back thoughts of early youth, e'er she had learnt to check, With artificial wreaths, the curls that sported o'er her neck.

She seem'd to feel her mother's hand

pass lightly through her hair, And draw it from her brow, to leave a

kiss of kindness there;

She seem'd to view her father's smile,

and feel the playful touch That sometimes feign'd to steal away the curls she prized so much.

And now she sees her first grey hair! oh,

deem it not a crime

For her to weep-when she beholds the first footmark of Time! She knows that, one by one, those mute

mementos will increase, And steal youth, beauty, strength away, till life itself shall cease.

'Tis not the tear of vanity for beauty on the wane

Yet though the blossom may not sigh to bud, and bloom again,

It cannot but remember with a feeling of regret,

The Spring for ever gone-the Summer sun so nearly set.

Ah, Lady! heed the monitor! Thy

mirror tells the truth, Assume the matron's folded veil, resign the wreath of youth; Go!-bind it on thy daughter's brow, in her thou'lt still look fair; Twere well would all learn wisdom who behold the first grey hair!

.

[WILLIAM ROSCOE. 1753-1831.]

ON PARTING WITH HIS BOOKS. 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, afflictions dart; Thus, lov'd 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 un

fold,

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.

[HERBERT KNOWLES. 1798-1827.1 LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCHYARD, YORKSHIRE.

"It is good for us to be here; if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias."-Matt. xvii. 4.

METHINKS it is good to be here; If thou wilt, let us build-but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear, But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,

The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? oh, no! Affrighted, he shrinketh away;

For, see! they would pin him below, In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay,

To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a

prey.

10 Beauty? ah, no!-she forgets The charms which she wielded beforeNor knows the foul worm that he frets

The skin which but yesterday fools could adore,

For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of PrideThe trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside; And here's neither dress nor adornment

allow'd,

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?

Ah, no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow! Beneath-the cold dead, and aroundthe dark stone,

Are the signs of a Sceptre that none may disown!

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,

And look for the sleepers around us to rise ;

The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled;

of the shroud.

To Riches? ias! 'tis in vain ; Who hid, in their turn have been hid : The treasures are squandered again; And here in the grave are all metals forbid,

But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford

The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board! But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,

And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah, no! they have wither'd and died, Or fled with the spirit above; Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,

Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

sacrifice,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that

was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow

bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow