As ocean shells, when taken
From Ocean's bed, will faithfully repeat

Her ancient music sweet

Ev'n so these words, true to my heart, shall waken!

Oh! while our bark is seen,

Our little bark of kindly, social love,

Down life's clear stream to move

Toward the summer shores, where all is green

So long thy name shall bring
Echoes of joy unto the grateful gales,

And thousand tender tales,

To freshen the fond hearts that round thee cling!

Hast thou not looked upon

The flowerets of the field in lowly dress?
Blame not my simpleness-

Think only of my love !—my song is gone.

STANZAS.

OCCASIONED BY A PASSAGE IN MR. EMERSON'S JOURNAL, WHICH STATES THAT, ON THE MENTION OF LORD BYRON'S NAME, CAPTAIN DEMETRIUS, AN OLD ROUMELIOT, BURST INTO TEARS.

NAME not his name, or look afar—

For when my spirit hears

That name, its strength is turned to woe—

My voice is turned to tears.

Name me the host and battle-storm,
Mine own good sword shall stem;
Name me the foeman and the block,
I have a smile for them!

But name him not, or cease to mark
This brow where passions sweep-
Behold, a warrior is a man,

And as a man may weep!

I could not scorn my Country's foes,
Did not these tears descend—
I could not love my Country's fame,
And not my Country's Friend.

Deem not his memory e'er can be
Upon our spirits dim-

Name us the generous and the free,
And we must think of him!

For his voice resounded through our land
Like the voice of liberty,
As when the war-trump of the wind
Upstirs our dark blue sea.

His arm was in the foremost rank,
Where embattled thousands roll-
His name was in the love of Greece,
And his spell was on her soul!

But the arm that wielded her good sword,
The brow that wore the wreath,

The lips that breathed the deathless thought-
They went asleep in death.

Ye left his HEART, when ye took

The dust in funeral state;

away

And we dumbly placed in a little urn
That home of all things great.

The banner streamed-the war-shout rose-
Our heroes played their part!

But not a pulse would throb or burn---
Oh! could it be his heart!

I will not think-'tis worse than vain
Upon such thoughts to keep;
Then, Briton, name me not his name--
I cannot choose but weep!

THE PAST.

THERE is a silence upon the Ocean,
Albeit it swells with a feverish motion;
Like to the battle-camp's fearful calm,

While the banners are spread, and the warriors arm.

The winds beat not their drum to the waves

But sullenly moan in the distant caves;
Talking over, before they rise,
Some of their dark conspiracies.

And so it is in this life of ours,
A calm may be on the present hours,
But the calmest hour of festive glee
May turn the mother of woe to thee.

I will betake me to the Past,

And she shall make my love at last ;
I will find my home in her tarrying-place-
I will gaze all day on her deathly face!

Her form, though awful, is fair to view;
The clasp of her hand, though cold, is true;
Her shadowy brow hath no changefulness,
And her numbered smiles can grow no less!

Her voice is like a pleasant song,
Which we have not heard for very long,
And which a joy on our souls will cast,
Though we know not where we heard it last.

She shall walk with me, away, away,
Where'er the mighty have left their clay;
She shall speak to me in places lone,
With a low and holy tone.

Ay! when I have lit my lamp at night,
She will be present with my sprite ;
And I will say, whate'er it be,
Every word she telleth me!

THE PRAYER.

METHOUGHT that I did stand upon a tomb-
And all was silent as the dust beneath,

While feverish thoughts upon my soul would come,
Losing my words in tears: I thought of death;
And prayed that when my lips gave out the breath,
The friends I loved like life might stay behind

So, for a little while, my name might eath

Be something dear,-spoken with voices kind,

Heard with remembering looks, from eyes which tears would blind!

I prayed that I might sink into my rest,
(O foolish, selfish prayer!) before them all ;
So I might look my last on those loved best—
So never would my voice repining call,
And never would my tears impassioned fall
On one familiar face turning to clay!
So would my tune of life be musical,
Albeit abrupt-like airs the Spaniards play,
Which in the sweetest part break off, and die away.

Methought I looked around! the scene was rife
With little vales, green banks, and waters heaving;
And every living thing did joy in life,

And every thing of beauty did seem living—
Oh then, life's pulse was at my heart reviving;
And then I knew that it was good to bear
Dispensed woe, that by the spirit's grieving
It might be weanèd from a world so fair!—
Thus with submissive words mine heart did close its prayer.

ON A PICTURE OF RIEGO'S WIDOW.

PLACED IN THE EXHIBITION.

DAUGHTER of Spain ! a passer by

May mark the cheek serenely pale-
The dark eyes which dream silently,
And the calm lip which gives no wail!

Calm! it bears not a deeper trace
Of feelings it disdained to show;
We look upon the Widow's face,
And only read the Patriot's woe !

No word, no look, no sigh of thine, Would make his glory seem more dim; Thou would'st not give to vulgar eyne The sacred tear which fell for HIM.

Thou would'st not hold to the world's view Thy ruined joys, thy broken heart— The jeering world-it only knew

Of all thine anguish—that thou WERT!

While o'er his grave thy steps would go
With a firm tread,-stilling thy love,-
As if the dust would blush below
To feel one faltering foot above.

For Spain, he dared the noble strife—
For Spain, he gave his latest breath;
And he who lived the Patriot's life,

Was dragged to die the traitor's death!

And the shout of thousands swept around,
As he stood the traitor's block beside;

But his dying lips gave a free sound-
Let the foe weep!-THY brow had pride;

Yet haply in the midnight air,

When none might part thy God and thee, The lengthened sob, the passionate prayer, Have spoken thy soul's agony !

But silence else, thou past away—
The plaint unbreathed, the anguish hid---
More voiceless than the echoing clay
Which idly knocked thy coffin's lid.