THE HOME-BOUND SHIP.

THE ship was homeward bound-the thrilling cry
Of "Land!-our native land!" from tongue to tongue
Had been proclaimed, and hearts were beating high
With Hope's sweet tumult, as its echo rung;
And rapture smiled or wept in many an eye,
While in the shrouds aloft the sea-boy sung
Snatches of songs, which bring to those who roam
The thoughts of welcome, and of home, sweet home.

But gallantly before the favouring gales

She moves in all her pride, a pageant fair;
The breezes wanton in her swelling sails,
And her gay fluttering pennons fan the air;
While music is on deck, the dance prevails,

And every shape of gladness revels there,
Through the far wasted night; as with her store
Of Indian wealth the vessel nears the shore.

But, hark! e'en now with awful change of cheer,
The billows rave, the eddying whirlwinds blow,
And breaks the dismal sound on every ear,

Of crashing contact with dread rocks below,

And the wild shriek of agonizing fear;

"The ship is sinking," in deep tones of woe, Bursts from the lips of all, with piercing cries For succour, as the roaring waters rise.

And hues of death were seen on every face;
And signs of terror e'en among the brave;
And lovers folding in a last embrace

The trembling forms of those they could not save. Then, for the lowered boats, the frantic race

And desperate struggle, while the ocean wave
Grew level with the deck, and kissed the feet
Of those for whom remained not a retreat.

There was the sob, the sigh, the whispered prayer,
And dismal outcry borne the billows o'er;
While some absorbed in silent grief were there,

Who breathed no plaint, but gazed upon the shore

With the fixed glances of intense despair,

And thought of those they should behold no more, With whom was fondly linked each tender tie That knits life's cords, and makes it hard to die.

That pause of bitter agony is past,

And the still agitated waters glide O'er the last vestige of the buried mast;

But striving stoutly with the eddying tide, The greedy billows, and the roaring blast,

In furious and tempestuous wrath allied, And rising o'er their mingled might is seen A gallant stripling with undaunted mien.

A A

His widowed mother's hope-the aid and joy

Of orphan sisters-on the treacherous main, With firm resolve no hardships could destroy, For them Life's needful comforts to obtain, Had early ventured this heroic boy,

Deeming all sufferings light and terrors vain,
That frowning Fortune sternly might oppose
To bar the vent'rous path he nobly chose.

And must that glowing heart be 'whelmed beneath
The raging waters of the restless deep?
And that fair form, untimely chilled in death,
Unshrouded in its gloomy caverns sleep?

E'en now with fainting limbs and labouring breath

He strives, while thoughts of those who soon may weep

In cureless anguish for his fate, comes o'er

His soul, and nerves his failing arm once more.

His reeling eye grows dim, while from the strand
The fishers cheer him-and intent to save,

The life-boat, launched by her determined band
Of dauntless heroes, dances o'er the wave;
He sees not, feels not, does not understand
His own deliverance from a watery grave,
Till his fond mother's joyful sobs he hears,
And reads his recent peril in her tears.

OF ALL THE BRAVE VESSELS THAT
RIDE THE BLUE SEA.

Of all the brave vessels that ride the blue sea,
There's none like the life-boat, so gallant and free;
For when the clouds gather, and wild winds rave,
She skims like a bird o'er the stormy wave,

Away, away,

Through foam and spray,

She leaves the bay.

The good ship is drifting before the gale;

The main-mast is shivered, and rent each sail

Hark to the cry!

The glad cry that bursts, 'midst their wild despair,

From the pale crew, who mark by the lightning's glare,

She is nigh,

She is nigh,

She is nigh

The brave life-boat is nigh.

A DEATH-BED SCENE.

"Twas the soft season of departing day, And the light breezes, with their fragrant breath, Gave double sweetness to the eve of May,

And waved in wanton sport the woodbine wreath That shaded a low casement, where the ray Of western glory entering, stole beneath The bloossmed branches, and upon the bed Of death a bright and trembling radiance shed; And gave a touching and unearthly grace

To features that retained much loveliness, Although imprinted with the withering trace

Of that deep grief no language could express; Whose withering touch had early from her face Stol'n the sweet smiles; yet you might aptly guess What they had been by the angelic air

That, e'en in Life's last struggles, lingered there.

And there was beauty on that faded brow,

Which, though her mortal sufferings might impair,

They could not banish; and its tintless snow
Was well contrasted by the raven hair
That fell in negligent, disordered flow,

O'er the pale cheek, so exquisitely fair,
On which one fluttered hectic spot alone
Told that it was not formed of Parian stone.