The youth at midnight sought his bed,
But e'er he clos'd his eyes,

Two forms drew near with gentle tread,
In meek and saintly guise,

One struck a lyre of wondrous power,
With thrilling music fraught,
That chain'd the flying summer-hour,
And charm'd the listener's thought;
For still would its tender cadence be,
"Follow me! Follow me!

And every morn a smile shall bring,
As sweet as the merry lay I sing."

She ceas'd, and with a serious air,
The other made reply,

"Shall he not also be my care?

May not I his pleasures share?
Sister! Sister! tell me why?

Need Memory e'er with Hope contend?

Doth not the virtuous soul, still find in both a friend?"

The youth beheld the strife,

And eagerly replied,

"Come both, and be my guide,

And gild the path of life;"

So he gave to each a trusting kiss,

And laid him down, and his dream was bliss.

The man came forth to run his race,

And ever when the morning light,
Rous'd him from the trance of night,
When singing from her nest,

The lark went up with dewy breast,

Hope by his pillow stood with angel grace ;

And as a mother cheers her son,

She girded his daily harness on.

When eve's pale star, from weary care,

Bade him to his home repair,

When by the hearth-stone where his joys were born,

The cricket wound its tiny horn,

Sober memory spread her board,

With knowledge richly stor❜d,

And supp'd with him, and like a guardian bless'd, His nightly rest.

The old man sat in his elbow-chair,

His locks were thin and grey,

Memory, that faithful friend was there,

And he in querulous tone did say,

"Thou hast lost! Thou hast lost! with careless key, Something that I have entrusted to thee."

Her pausing answer was sad and low,

"It

may be so! It may be so!

The lock of my casket is worn and weak,
And time with a plunderer's eye doth seek;
Something I miss, but I cannot say,

What it is, he hath stolen away,

For only tinsel and trifles spread,

Over the alter'd path we tread,

But the gems thou didst give me when life was new,

Diamonds and rubies of changeless hue,

See, here they are, all told and true.'

Thus while in grave debate,

Mournful, and ill at ease they sate,

Finding treasures disarranged,

Blaming the fickle world, because themselves were chang'd,

Hope on a buoyant wing did soar,

Which folded underneath her robe she wore,
And spread its rainbow plumes with new delight,

And jeoparded its strength, in a bold, heavenward flight.

The dying lay on his couch of pain,

And his soul went forth to the angel-train,

Yet when Heaven's gate its golden bars undrew,
Memory walked that portal through,

And spread her tablet to the Judge's eye,
Heightening with clear response, the welcome of the
sky.

But at the threshold high,

Hope faulter'd with a drooping eye,

And as the expiring rose,

Doth in its last adieu its sweetest breath disclose,

Lay down to die :

While soft her parting sigh,

Breath'd to a glorious form, that stood serenely by, "Immortal Joy!-Earth's pilgrim I resign,

He needs to light his way,

Christ hath redeem'd his soul, I die: his soul is thine."

23

SONG OF THE ICELANDIC FISHERMEN.

YIELD the bark to the breezes free,

Point her helm to the far, deep sea,

Where Hecla's watch-fire, streaming wild,

Hath never the mariner's eye beguil❜d,

Where, in boiling baths, strange monsters play,
Down to the deep sea-launch away!

Gay over coral reefs we steer,

Where moulder the bones of the brave,

Where the beautiful sleep on their humid bier,

And the pale pearl gleams in its quenchless sphere,' The lamp of their ocean-grave;

Swift o'er the crested surge we row;

Down to the fathomless sea we go.

King of day! to thee we turn,

May our course be blest by thee,
Eyes bright as thine in our homes shall burn,
When again our hearths we see ;
When the scaly throng, to our skill a prey,
At the foot of our fur-clad maids we lay.

Thou art mighty in wrath, devouring tide!
The strong ship loves o'er thy foam to ride,

Her banner by bending clouds caress'd,

The waves at her keel, and a world in her breast;
Thou biddest the blast of thy billows sweep,
Her tall masts bow to the cleaving deep,
And seal'd in thy cells, her proud ones sleep.

Our sails are as chaff, when the tempest raves,
And our boat a speck on the mountain-waves;
Yet we pour not to thee, the imploring strain,
We sooth not thine anger, relentless main !
Libation we pour not, nor vow, nor prayer,
Our hope is in thee,

God of the sea!

The deep is thy path, and the soul thy care.