There the fond lover, listening for the sweet
Half soundless coming of his maiden's feet,
Thrills if the linnet's rustling pinions pass,
Or some light leaf is blown rippling along the grass.

But Love his pain as sweetly tells
Beneath some cavern beetling hoar,
Where silver sands and rosy shells

Pave the smooth, glistening shore,-
When all the winds are low, and to thy tender
Accents, the wavelets, stealing in, make slender
And tinkling cadence, wafting, every one
A golden smile to thee from the fast-sinking sun.

Or if (like some) thou 'st loved in vain,

Or madly wooed the already won,
Go, when the Passion and the Pain
Their havoc have begun,

And dare the Thunder, rolling up behind
The Deep, to match that hurricane of mind;
Or to the sea-winds, raging on thy pale

Grief-wasted cheek, pour forth as bitter keen a tale.

For in that sleepless, tumbling tide,—
When most thy fevered spirits reel,

Sick with desires unsatisfied, ·

Dwell life and balm to heal.

Raise thy free sail, and seek o'er ocean's breast-
It boots not what those rose-clouds in the west,
And deem that thus thy spirit freed shall be,
Ploughing the stars through seas of blue eternity.

B. SIMMONS.

THE SPELL OF THE SEA.

I NEVER think without a thrill
Of wild and pure delight

Of all the leagues of blue, blue sea,
Which I have sailed o'er merrily
In day or dead of night.

With moon and stars, at morn and eve,

In sunny wind or shower,

How often hath it worked in me,
That mystery of the kingly sea,

With joyous spells of power!

O it is well sick men should go
Unto the royal sea;

For on their souls, as on a glass,

From its bright fields the breath doth pass

Of its infinity.

My mother taught me how to love

The mystery of the sea;

She sported with my childish wonder
At its white waves and gentle thunder, -
Like a man's deep voice to me.

When in my soul dim thoughts awoke,
She helped to set them free;

I learned from ocean's murmurings
How infinite, eternal things,
Though viewless, yet could be.

In gentle moods I love the hills
Because they bound my spirit;
But to the broad blue sea I fly
When I would feel the destiny
Immortal souls inherit.

F. W. FABER.

O YE KEEN BREEZES.

O YE keen breezes from the salt Atlantic,
Which to the beach, where memory loves to wander,
On your strong pinions waft reviving coolness,
Bend your course hither!

For, in the surf ye scattered to the sunshine,
Did we not sport together in my boyhood,
Screaming for joy amid the flashing breakers,
O rude companions?

Then to the meadows beautiful and fragrant, Where the coy Spring beholds her earliest verdure Brighten with smiles that rugged sea-side hamlet, How would we hasten!

There under elm-trees affluent in foliage,
High o'er whose summit hovered the sea-eagle,
Through the hot, glaring noontide have we rested
After our gambols.

Vainly the sailor called you from your slumber :
Like a glazed pavement shone the level ocean;
While, with the snow-white canvass idly drooping,
Stood the tall vessels.

And when, at length, exulting ye awakened,
Rushed to the beach, and ploughed the liquid acres,
How have I chased you through the shivered billows,
In my frail shallop!

Playmates, old playmates, hear my invocation!
In the close town I waste this golden summer,
Where piercing cries and sounds of wheels in motion
Ceaselessly mingle.

When shall I feel your breath upon my forehead? When shall I hear you in the elm-trees' branches? When shall we wrestle in the briny surges,

Friends of my boyhood?

EPES SARGENT,

WHERE IS THE SEA?

SONG OF THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE.

[A Greek Islander, being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and called upon to admire its beauty, only replied — 'The sea—where is it ?']

WHERE is the sea?—I languish here
Where is my own blue sea?
With all its barks in fleet career,
And flags, and breezes free.

I miss that voice of waves which first
Awoke my childhood's glee;

The measured chime - the thundering burst
Where is my own blue sea?

Oh! rich your myrtle's breath may rise,
Soft, soft your winds may be;
Yet my sick heart within me dies
Where is my own blue sea ?

I hear the shepherd's mountain flute-
I hear the whispering tree;
The echoes of my soul are mute :

-Where is my own blue sea?

MRS. HEMANS.