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And knew not compassion, but laugh'd at their

pray'r, When they called on their God, or wept loud in

despair ; Till again rose the morn, and all hush'd was the wail, And on cheeks stark and cold the grim darkness was

pale.

Then the white heartless demons, with curse and with

frown, Gave the dead to the deep, till the darkness came

down: But the angel who blasteth, unheard and unseen, Bade the tyrants lie low where their victims had

been : And down dropp'd the waves, and stone-still hung

the sail, And black sank the dead, while more pale grew the

pale.

Stern angel, how calmly his chosen he slew !
And soon the survivors were fearfully few;
For, wall’d o'er their heads the red firmament stood,
And the sun saw his face in a mirror of blood;
Till they fed on each other, and drank of the sea,
And wildly cursed God in their madness of glee !

What hand sweeps the stars from the cheek of the

night? Who lifts up the sea in the wrath of his might? Why, down from his glance, shrinks in horror the

shark? Why stumbles o'er mountains the blind foodless

barque? Lo, his lightning speaks out, from the growl of the

gale! And shrieking she sinks—while the darkness turns

pale !

THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM.

BEFORE thy leaves thou com’st once more,

White blossom of the sloe !
Thy leaves will come as heretofore ;
But this poor heart, its troubles o'er,

Will then lie low.

A month at least before thy time

Thou com'st, pale flower, to me;
For well thou know'st the frosty rime
Will blast me ere my vernal prime,

No more to be.

Why here in winter? No storm lowers

O'er Nature's silent shroud !
But blithe larks meet the sunny showers,
High o'er the doom'd untimely flowers

In beauty bow'd.

Sweet violets, in the budding grove,

Peep where the glad waves run; The wren below, the thrush above, Of bright to-morrow's joy and love

Sing to the sun.

And where the rose-leaf, ever bold,

Hears bees chant hymns to God, The breeze-bow'd palm, moss'd o'er with gold, Smiles on the well in summer cold,

And daisied sod.

But thou, pale blossom, thou art come,

And flowers in winter blow,
To tell me that the worm makes room
For me, her brother, in the tomb,

And thinks me slow.

For as the rainbow of the dawn

Foretells an eve of tears,
A sunbeam on the sadden'd lawn
I smile, and weep to be withdrawn

In early years.

Thy leaves will come ! but songful spring

Will see no leaf of mine; Her bells will ring, her bride's maids sing, When my young leaves are withering

Where no suns shine.

O might I breathe morn's dewy breath,

When June's sweet Sabbaths chime !
But, thine before my time, O death!
I go where no flower blossometh,

Before my time.

Even as the blushes of the morn

Vanish, and long ere noon
The dew-drop dieth on the thorn,
So fair I bloom’d; and was I born

To die as soon ?

To love my mother and to die

To perish in my bloom !
Is this my sad brief history ?-
A tear dropp'd from a mother's eye

Into the tomb.

He lived and loved—will sorrow say,

By early sorrow tried ;
He smiled, he sigh'd, he past away;
His life was but an April day-

He loved and died !

My mother smiles, then turns away,

But turns away to weep:
They whisper round me—what they say
I need not hear, for in the clay

I soon must sleep.

Oh, love is sorrow! sad it is

To be both tried and true;
I ever trembled in my bliss;
Now there are farewells in a kiss-

They sigh adieu.

But woodbines flaunt when blue bells fade,

Where Don reflects the skies;
And many a youth in Shire-cliff's shade
Will ramble where my boyhood play'd,

Though William dies.

Then panting woods the breeze will feel,

And bowers, as heretofore, Beneath their load of roses reel; But I through woodbined lanes shall steal

No more, no more.

Well, lay me by my brother's side,

Where late we stood and wept ; For I was stricken when he diedI felt the arrow as he sigh'd

His last and slept.

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