In the GULF of ST. LAWRENCE, late in the Evening, September, 1805.

EE

you, beneath yon cloud so dark,

Fast gliding along a gloomy bark?

Her sails are full,-though the wind is still,
And there blows not a breath her sails to fill!

Say what doth that vessel of darkness bear? The silent calm of the grave is there,

Save now and again a death-knell rung,

And the flap of the sails with night-fog hung.

There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore

Of cold and pitiless Labrador;

Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost, Full many a mariner's bones are tost.

Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck,
And the dim blue fire, that lights her deck,
Doth play on as pale and livid a crew
As ever yet drank the churchyard dew.

To Deadman's Isle, in the eye of the blast,
To Deadman's Isle, she speeds her fast;
By skeleton shapes her sails are furl'd,
And the hand that steers is not of this world!

Oh! hurry thee on-oh! hurry thee on,
Thou terrible bark, ere the night be gone,
Nor let morning look on so foul a sight
As would blanch for ever her rosy light!

THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE.

IIE turf shall be my fragrant shrine;
My temple, LORD! that Arch of thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.

My choir shall be the moonlit waves,
When murm'ring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,

Even more than music, breathes of Thee!

I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
All light and silence, like thy Throne;
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.

Thy heaven, on which 't is bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame
The glories of thy wondrous name.

I'll read thy anger in the rack

That clouds awhile the day-beam's track;
Thy mercy in the azure hue

Of sunny brightness, breaking through.

There's nothing bright, above, below,

From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see

Some feature of thy Deity.

There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy Love,
And meekly wait that moment, when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again!

LIKE ONE WHO, DOOM'D.

IKE one who, doom'd o'er distant seas
His weary path to measure,

When home at length, with fav'ring breeze,
He brings the far-sought treasure ;

His ship, in sight of shore, goes down,
That shore to which he hasted;
And all the wealth he thought his own

Is o'er the waters wasted.

Like him, this heart, thro' many a track
Of toil and sorrow straying,
One hope alone brought fondly back,
Its toil and grief repaying.

Like him, alas! I see that ray
Of hope before me perish,
And one dark minute sweep away

What years were given to cherish.

WHO IS THE MAID?

ST. JEROME'S LOVE.

HO is the Maid my spirit secks,

Through cold reproof and slander's blight?
Has she Love's roses on her cheeks?

Is hers an eye of this world's light?
No-wan and sunk with midnight prayer

Are the pale looks of her I love;

Or if, at times, a light be there,

Its beam is kindled from above.

I chose not her, my heart's elect,

From those who seek their Maker's shrine
In gems and garlands proudly deck'd,

As if themselves were things divine.
No-Heaven but faintly warms the breast
That beats beneath a broider'd veil;
And she who comes in glitt'ring vest
To mourn her frailty, still is frail.

Not so the faded form I prize

And love, because its bloom is gone;

The glory in those sainted eyes

Is all the grace her brow puts on. And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright, So touching as that form's decay, Which, like the altar's trembling light,

In holy lustre wastes away.