Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters,-away, and away!
Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part,
Passing away, like a dream of the heart!
Who-as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her, and sunshine on high-
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow,
Oh! there be hearts that are breaking below!
Night on the waves!—and the moon is on high,
Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky,
Treading its depths in the power of her might,
And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light!
Look to the waters!-asleep on their breast,
Seems not the ship like an island of rest?
Bright and alone on the shadowy main,
Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain!
Who-as she smiles in the silvery light,
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky,
A phantom of beauty-could deem with a sigh,
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,
And that souls that are smitten lie bursting within }
Who-as he watches her silently gliding-
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever,
Hearts which are parted and broken for ever?
Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave,
The deathbed of hope, or the young spirit's grave?
'Tis thus with our life, while it passes along, Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song! Gaily we glide, in the gaze of the world,
With streamers afloat, and with canvass unfurled; All gladness and glory, to wandering eyes,
Yet chartered by sorrow, and freighted with sighs:
Fading and false is the aspect it wears,
As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears; And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know,
Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below;
Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore, Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er.
A WHITE sail gleaming on the flood,
And the bright-orbed sun on high,
Are all that break the solitude
Of the circling sea and sky;-
Nor cloud, nor cape is imaged there;
Nor isle of ocean, nor of air.
Led by the magnet o'er the tides,
That bark her path explores,-
Sure as unerring instinct guides
The bird to unseen shores:
With wings that o'er the waves expand,
She wanders to a viewless land.
Yet not alone;-on ocean's breast,
Though no green islet glows,
No sweet, refreshing spot of rest,
Where fancy may repose;
Nor rock, nor hill, nor tower, nor tree,
Breaks the blank solitude of sea ;-
No not alone !-her beauteous shade
Attends her noiseless way;
As some sweet memory, undecayed,
Clings to the heart for aye,
And haunts it-wheresoe'er we go,
Through every scene of joy and woe.
And not alone;-for day and night
Escort her o'er the deep;
And round her solitary flight
The stars their vigils keep.
Above, below, are circling skies,
And heaven around her pathway lies.
And not alone ;-for hopes and fears
Go with her wandering sail;
And bright eyes watch, through gathering tears,
Its distant cloud to hail;
And prayers for her, at midnight lone,
Ascend, unheard by all, save One.
And not alone;-for round her glow
The vital light and air;
And something that, in whispers low,
Tells to man's spirit there,
Upon her waste and weary road,
A present, all-pervading God!
THE pilgrim fathers-where are they?
The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray,
As they break along the shore:
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day,
When the May-flower moored below,
When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.
The mists that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep,
Still brood upon the tide ;
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,
To stay its waves of pride.
But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale,
When the heavens looked dark, is gone ;—
As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud,
Is seen, and then withdrawn.
The pilgrim exile-sainted name!—
The hill, whose icy brow
Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame,
In the morning's flame burns now.
And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night
On the hill-side and the sea,
Still lies where he laid his houseless head;-
But the pilgrim-where is he?
The pilgrim fathers are at rest:
When Summer's throned on high,
And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, Go stand on the hill where they lie.
The earliest ray of the golden day
On that hallowed spot is cast;
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,
Looks kindly on that spot at last.
The pilgrim spirit has not fled:
It walks in noon's broad light;
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,
With the holy stars by night.
It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,
And shall guard this ice-bound shore,
Till the waves of the bay, where the May-flower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more.
ON THE LOSS OF HIS MAJESTY'S SHIP SALDANAH.
"BRITANNIA rules the waves !"
Heard'st thou that dreadful roar?
Hark! 'tis bellowed from the caves
Where Lough Swilly's billow raves,
And three hundred British graves
Taint the shore.
No voice of life was there!
'Tis the dead that raise that cry!
The dead, who raised no prayer
As they sunk in wild despair,
Chaunt in scorn that boastful air,
Where they lie.
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