Into the ghastly hollow;

They fling the rope to the heaving wreck.
The aim is sure, and it strikes the deck
As the shouts of quick hope follow.

Reached, but not saved; there is more to do,
A trumpet note is heard;

And over the rage and over the roar
Of billowy thunders on the shore
Rings out the guiding word,
There is one chance, and only one,
All can be saved,-but how?
The rope hold fast, but quit the mast
At the trumpet signal, “Now!"
There is a moment when the sea
Has spent its furious strength,
A shuddering pause with a sudden twirl,
Gathering force again to hurl
Billow on billow in whirl on whirl;
That moment comes at length.
With a single shout the "Now!" peals out,
And the answering leap is made.
Well for the simple hearts that just
Loosing the mast with fearless trust
The strange command obeyed!

For the rope is good, and the stout arms pull,
Ere the brief storm lull is o'er;

It is but a swift and blinding sweep,
Through the waters wild and dark and deep,
And the men are safe on shore.

Safe! hough the fiend-like blast pursue;
Safe! though the waves dash high;
But the ringing cheer that rises clear
Is pierced with a sudden cry!

"There are but four drawn up to the shore,

And five were on the deck!"

And the straining gaze that conquers gloom, Still traces, drifting on to doom,

One man upon the wreck.

Again they chase in sternest race

The far-recoiling wave;

The rope is thrown to the tossing mark,

But reaches not in the wind and dark

The one they strive to save.

Again they rush, and again they fail,
Again and yet again;

The storm yeils back defiance loud,

The breakers rear a rampart proud,

And roar, "In vain, in vain!"

Then a giant wave takes up the wreck,
And bears it on its crest;

One moment it hangs quivering there
In horrible arrest.

And the lonely man on the savage sea,
By lightning flash uplit,

Is clinging fast to the broken mast
That he has not dared to quit.

Then the horror of great darkness falls,
While eyes flash inward fire,

And over all the roar and dash,

Through that great blackness comes a crash

A token sure and dire.

The wave has burst upon the pier,
The wreck is scattered wide;
Another now will never reach
The dead man lying on the beach,
With the receding tide.

LOVE ON THE HALF SHELL-PELEG ARKWRIGHT.

A BALLAD OF OYSTER BAY.

I ain't anybody in particular,
And never calc'lated to be;

I'm aware that my views doesn't signify
Except to Belinda and me;

But I'm heavy on openin' oysters-
In regards to them I am free

To remark that for shellin' of Blue Points,
There is few that can lay over me.

Excuse my perfessional blowin',
It isn't the point I would make,
But I'm feelin particular airy,
And uncommonly wide awake;
And I've got to be talkin' about it,
It won't lay quiet, you see;
Which the name of the girl is Belinda,
That's took an affection for me.

It's surprisin'-the fact is surprisin'-
Just cast your eye over this frame!
Is there anything specially gallus
Which characterizes the same?
As a model for makin' wax figgers
I shouldn't make much of a stir;
But I ain't a-goin' to worry,
So long as I'm pleasin' to her.

An impediment hinders my speakin'
As I should admire to do;

As an elocutin' perfessor.

My scholars would likely be few;
But she said, when I mentioned it to her,
"Why, dear, don't you fret, for, you see,
You tell me you love me, my darling,
And your voice is like music to me."
I was never indicted for intellect,
Nor never arrested for cheek;
But I'm holdin' my head elevated
Since Thursday night was a week;
For that was the date when Belinda
Allowed she was partial to me,
And give me a relish for livin',
And a notion of workin' for she.

She isn't egzackly a beauty,

And also she uses a crutch;

But the eyes of that dear little cripple
The heart of an oyster would touch.
They is wonderful soft, and so lovin',
A good-lookin' face on the whole,
Fur the light in them eyes seems to travel
Right out from a beautiful soul.

If she had been lively and hearty

I couldn't have helped her, you see;

And similar, then, it ain't likely

That she would have took up with me;

And I shouldn't have knowed her and loved her,
So patient and gentle and sweet;

And I wish that the whole of creation
I could lay at her poor little feet.

I was never so chirk and galloptious,
And never before felt so spry;
And I've just took to noticin' lately
How amazin❜ly blue is the sky;
And how gay is the stars in the night-time,
A-winkin' and glimmerin' down-
Good gracious! I come near forgettin'
That barrel of oysters for Brown!

THE GLASS RAILROAD.-GEORGE Lippard.

It seemed to me as though I had been suddenly aroused from my slumber. I looked around and found myself in the centre of a gay crowd. The first sensation I experienced was

that of being borne along, with a peculiar motion. I looked around and found that I was in a long train of cars which were gliding over a railway, and seemed to be many miles in length. It was composed of many cars. Every car, open at the top, was filled with men and women, all gayly dressed, and happy, and all laughing, talking, and singing. The peculiarly gentle motion of the cars interested me. There was no grating, such as we usually hear on the railroad. They moved along without the least jar or sound. This, I say, interested me. I looked over the side, and to my astonishment found the railroad and cars made of glass. The glass wheels moved over the glass rails without the least noise or oscillation. The soft gliding motion produced a feeling of exquisite happiness. I was happy! It seemed as if everything was at rest within-I was full of peace.

While I was wondering over this circumstance, a new sight attracted my gaze. All along the road, within a foot of the track, were laid long lines of coffins on either side of the railroad, and every one contained a corpse dressed for burial, with its cold, white face turned upward to the light. The sight filled me with horror; I yelled in agony, but could make no sound. The gay throng who were around me only redoubled their singing and laughter at the sight of my agony, and we swept on, gliding on with glass wheels over the railroad, every moment coming nearer to the bend of the road, which formed an angle with the road far, far in the distance.

"Who are those?" I cried at last, pointing to the dead in the coffins.

"Those are the persons who made the trip before us," was the reply of one of the gayest persons near me.

"What trip?" I asked.

"Why, the trip you are now making; the trip on this glass railway," was the answer.

"Why do they lie along the road, each one in his coffin?" I was answered with a whisper and a half laugh which froze my blood:

'They were dashed to death at the end of the railroad," Baid the person whom I addressed.

"You know the railroad terminates at an abyss which is without bottom or measure. It is lined with pointed rocks. As each car arrives at the end it precipitates its passengers into the abyss. They are dashed to pieces against the rocks, and their bodies are brought here and placed in the coffins as a warning to other passengers; but no one minds it, we are so happy on the glass railroad."

I can never describe the horror with which those words inspired me.

"What is the name of the glass railroad?" I asked. The person whom I asked, replied in the same strain :— “It is very easy to get into the cars, but very hard to get out. For, once in these, everybody is delighted with the soft, gliding motion. The cars move gently. Yes, this is a railroad of habit, and with glass wheels we are whirled over a glass railroad towards a fathomless abyss. In a few moments we'll be there, and they'll bring our bodies and put them in coffins as a warning to others; but nobody will mind it, will they?"

I was choked with horror. I struggled to breathe-made frantic efforts to leap from the cars, and in the struggle I awoke. I know it was only a dream, and yet, whenever I think of it, I can see that long train of cars moving gently over the glass railroad. I can see cars far ahead, as they are turning the bend of the road. I can see the dead in their coffins, clear and distinct on either side of the road; while the laughing and singing of the gay and happy passengers resound in my ears, I only see the cold faces of the dead, with their glassy eyes uplifted, and their frozen hands upon their shrouds.

It was, indeed, a horrible dream. A long train of glass cars, gliding over a glass railway, freighted with youth, beauty, and music, while on either hand are stretched the victims of yesterday—gliding over the railway of habit toward the fathomless abyss.

"There was a moral in that dream."

Reader, are you addicted to any sinful habit? Break it off ere you dash against the rocks."