When lo! a crimson flash, with peal sublime,
Instant as thought, and terrible as death,
Around her bursts. Blinded she starts, then sees
Again. The horse and his bold rider lie
Hushed in the marble sleep that lasts through time;
And while the wind howls mournfully around,
The forest owns the baptism of fire.
The onset o'er, in mingled fire and hail,
Behold the rain in sweet profusion falls.
The warm shower melts the crystal drops that hide
The earth's brown bosom; and the foaming brooks
Go singing down the hills, and through the vales,
Like happy children when their tasks are o'er.
A few bright flashes, and hoarse, rattling peals,
And then, amid the broad and crimson glow,
O'er western hills, a golden spot appears,
That spreads and brightens as the tempest wanes,
Like Heaven's first smile upon the dying's face.
'Tis gone; the rumbling of its chariot wheels
Dies in the ocean vales where echo sleeps;
While waves that rolled in music on the shore.
Lashed into angry surges, foam and break
In notes of terror on the rocky lee.
'Tis gone, and on its bosom dark and wild,
The bow of God is hung, in colors bright
And beautiful as morning's blushing tints,
When the ark rested on the mountain top,
And the small remnant of a deluged world
Looked out upon the wilderness and wept.
THE LETTER FROM HOME.
A YOUTHFUL Stranger walked alone
In a great city's busiest place;
He heard not one familiar tone,
He saw not one familiar face;
He trod that long and weary street,
Till day's last beam waxed faint and dim,
But none were nigh to cheer or greet
Not one was there to smile on him.
He saw before h m thickly press
The rude, the beautiful, the proud; And felt that strange, deep loneliness
Which chills us in the selfish crowd.
Ay! though his heart was stern and strong,
And scorned each soft and wailing mood,
He felt a sore and saddening throng
Of doubts and wasting cares intrude.
While yet he mused in bitter thought,
A messenger appeared at hand,
Who to that mourning pilgrim brought
A letter from his own fair land.
Eager, as if it searched a mine,
His eye that welcome page explored,
And as it read each glowing line,
Hope, gladness, life, were all restored.
Yet mightier than the voice from home,
Which nerved that drooping exile's breast,
Those words of thine, Redeemer, come
To calm our fears and give us rest:
When, in some sad and sunless hour,
We pine for smiles and tones of love,
They bid us look, through storm and shower,
To Thee our Light and Life—above.
LINES ON THE LOSS OF A SHIP.
HER mighty sails the breezes swell,
And fast she leaves the lessening land,
And from the shore the last farewell
Is waved by many a snowy hand;
And weeping eyes are on the main,
Until the verge she wanders o'er ;
But from the hour of parting pain,
That bark was never heard of more.
In her was many a mother's joy,
And love of many a weeping fair;
For her was wafted, in its sigh,
The lonely heart's unceasing prayer.
And oh! the thousand hopes untold
Of ardent youth that vessel bore:
Say, were they quenched in waters cold?
For she was never heard of more!
When on her wide and trackless path
Of desolation doomed to flee,
Say, sank she 'midst the blending wrath
Of racking cloud and rolling sea?
Or, where the land but mocks the eye,
When drifting on a fatal shore?
Vain guesses all - her destiny
Is dark she ne'er was heard of more!
The moon hath twelve times changed her form
From glowing orb to crescent wan;
'Mid skies of calm, and scowl of storm,
Since from her port that ship hath gone.
But ocean keeps its secret well,
And though we know that all is o'er,
No eye hath seen, no tongue can tell,
Her fate-she ne'er was heard of more!
Oh! were her tale of sorrow known,
'T were something to the broken heart;
The pangs of doubt would then be gone,
And fancy's endless dreams depart:
It may not be !-there is no ray
By which her doom we may explore,
We only know she sailed away,
And ne'er was seen nor heard of more!
EXERCISE LXXXV.
THERE'S ROOM ENOUGH FOR ALL.
WHAT need of all this fuss and strife,
Each warring with his brother?
Why should we, in the crowd of life,
Keep trampling down each other?
Is there no goal that can be won,
Without a squeeze to gain it?
No other way of getting on,
But scrambling to obtain it?
O, fellow-men! have wisdom, then,
In friendly warning call-
Your claims divide the world is wide
There's room enough for all."
What if the swarthy peasant find
No field for honest labor?
He need not idly stop behind,
To thrust aside his neighbor.
There is a land with sunny skies
Where gold for toil is given;
Where every brawny hand that tries
Its strength can grasp a living.
O, fellow-men! remember, then,
Whatever chance befall,
The world is wide-where those abide
There's room enough for all.
From poisoned air ye breathe in courts,
And typhus tainted alleys,
Go forth, and dwell where health resorts,
In fertile hills and valleys;
Where every arm that clears a bough
Finds plenty in attendance; -
Up! leave your loathsome cities now,
And toil for independence.
O, hasten then, from fevered den,
And lodging cramped and small;
The world is wide-in land beside.
There's room enough for all.
In this fair region, far away,
Will labor find employment-
A fair day's work, a fair day's pay,
And toil will earn enjoyment.
What need, then, of this daily strife,
Where each wars with his brother? Why need we, through the crowd of life, Keep trampling down each other? From rags and crime that distant clime Will free the pauper's thrall;
Take fortune's side the world so wide Has room enough for all.
TO YOUNG STUDENTS.
TOIL on, young student! thine is not
The conqueror's laurel crown;
No b.ood is on the shining leaf
That wreathes thy bright renown.
Toil on! beneath no flower-decked mead
Lies hidden golden ore;
And thou must delve Time's deepest caves To gather classic lore.
Thou seest not yet life's many paths,
With dangers ever rife:
Thou hear'st not yet the battle's din
Rise from its field of strife.
But from the armory of Truth
Choose out thy weapons keen,
And keep them bright with daily toil,
Till comes thy trial-scene.
As thou hast used thy gifts of youth,
So wilt thou be repaid,
When the white blossoms of the grave
Are on thy temples laid.
A ROSY CHILD WENT FORTH TO PLAY.
A ROSY child went forth to play,
In the first flush of hope and pride, Where sands in silver beauty lay,
Made smooth by the retreating tide; And kneeling on the trackless waste, Whence ebbed the waters many a mile, He raised, in hot and trembling haste, Arch, wall, and tower-a goodly pile.
But when the shades of evening fell,
Veiling the blue and peaceful deep,
The tolling of the distant bell
Called the boy builder home to sleep ;
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