The ship is ours, as we shall see-
Her topsails are aback.

Draw the keen knife-prepare to “board,”
Spare none to lisp the tale;

Secure the gold, apply the torch,
And we are with the gale."

Not in this form alone, appears

The foe in friendship's sheen; On land, as well as ocean drear,

False colors oft are seen. The idle gossip floats about

With every changing gale,

And with her siren voice, she breathes
A life-corroding tale.

The nymph and swain catch up the sound

And pipe it o'er and o'er,

Till Love's bright wreath droops in the blast,
And Friendship lives no more.

"Who steals my purse, steals trash”—but ah,
To rob me of my name,

Is more than Pirate could demand,-
Defamer! where's thy shame ?

Forbear, ye rovers on the land,

Nor steal what gold can't buy ;-
The brightest flower to scandal's touch
May droop its head and die.

Take heed-give freedom to each sail-
Bear up for Virtue's light,
Or Justice, ever on the wing,
Will 'mind you of its might.

1

SUMMER'S RETURN.

SHE comes all adorned with bright odorous roses,
And wears a sweet smile that enraptures the heart;
She comes from a clime where the jasmine reposes,
Where spice-breathing zephyrs ne'er sigh to depart.
She comes like a maiden of exquisite beauty,
And breathes in our pathway her soul-stirring song;
Oh, why do we slumber while summon'd to duty?
Why choose we the din of the city's rude throng?

List, list to the music, as sweetly 'tis falling,
On every soft zephyr it floats to our ear;
The birds of bright plume to each other are calling,
And all is delightful, for Summer is here!

The fields at her touch are bespangled with flowers,
And mountains and valleys rejoice at her call ;
Oh! who cannot find in the cool, blossom'd bowers,
A charm never met with in fashion's gay hall?

The Summer is here-quite as youthful as ever,
For time cannot furrow her fair, sunny brow;
But ah, she has wings!—and will hasten to sever!
And yet, she would stay, did the clime but allow.

Then away to the woods while gay nature is smiling,
And tossing her sweet perfumed gems all around;
There's nought in the lesson she breathes that's beguiling,
Oh! come then, repair to the bright flowery ground.

REFLECTIONS OF AN OLD MAN.

'TWAS twilight hour

I saw an old man leaning on his staff,—
His features haggard, and his locks were white.
The blight of fourscore years was on his brow,—
A tear suffused his eye, and quivering hung his lip.
Sigh after sigh escaped his breast ;- His harp
Seem'd set to sorrow; and methought I heard
Its lone lament go out upon the breeze
Of evening, thus:—

Those golden hours of dreaming youth,

How soon they pass away,

And leave us withering in the shade
Of cold and sunless day.

These eyes once bright, are faint and dim—
And furrowed is my cheek;

I'm smitten by the frost of time,
Where shall I comfort seek?

I cannot revel 'mong bright flowers
With schoolmates light and free,
As in those early days, ah, no-
Those forms no more I see.

Nor stoop at brink of crystal spring
And quaff its pure delight,

'Neath balmy grove, with genial hearts

Who blessed my boyhood's sight.

I cannot roam with tiny step,
Through sweet ambrosial bowers,
And hail the birds of gentle beak
That carroll 'mong the flowers.
And oh, I've lost that 'lastic nerve,
That oft o'er placid lake

Was wont to urge my skiff along,
With light hearts in my wake.

And was I once that ruddy boy,
Whose cheek wore such a glow

When pressed by a fond mother's lip?
Alas, 'tis even so!

Relentless Time has swept away

Those that fed my gaze;

gems

And soon his blighting, freezing breath,

Must chill this fainting blaze.

The dream, though fraught with pain, is sweet,

'Tis past,-I am alone ;—

I will not sigh for youth again,

For lost ones, will not moan.

Though wreaths of sparkling roses crowned

My brow in early day,

How have I felt the lurking thorn

Stealing my life away!

Upon life's sea of boisterous wave,
Lash'd by the angry blast,
My bark has struggled fearful on,

With bent and shattered mast.

And one might read in these moist eyes, of the past;

A story

The inward harpstrings rudely riven,
And gloom about me cast.

Then oh, my soul, thy yearnings cease,
Nor backward look in vain ;

But speed thee on, my trembling bark,
And leave this sea of pain.

Hope aids me here to fix my gaze,
On yon Celestial bower,

Where youth and love forever dwell,
And Time is 'reft of power.

THE DEAD CHILD.

SUGGESTED ON SEEING A YOUNG MOTHER KISS HER LIFELESS INFANT.

I HEARD a voice of mourning

And I learnt 'twas a fond mother

Bending o'er her lifeless infant,

While like some chizzled statue, fine, it lay
Wrapt in its robe of white, outstretched and cold;
Its placid brow and angel face would seem
Almost to dry up all its parents' tears-

Still gazed the mother; and methought I heard,
Amid loud frequent sighs, her harp thus tuned:

Jewel my own, my lov'd, my lost,

I stoop to kiss thy marble brow ;-
Those eyes so fix'd by death's keen frost,
Can shed no radiance on me now.