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And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be

Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers—they to me
Were a delight; and if the fresh'ning sea

Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear;
For I was as it were a child of thee,

And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.

Byron.

THE ANGEL OF DEATH.

'twas night: over earth like a pall was thrown Thickest darkness. Blent with the thunder's tone Were the torrent's rush, and the wind's wild moan,

And the wail of the ocean wave. 'Twas then that grim Death, clad in terror and gloom, Left his cheerless home in the dreary tomb, To summon the old and the young to their doom,

In the land of the dreamless grave.

He lifted the latch of a cottage door,

Where a widowed mother was bending o'er—

With looks that the fulness of sorrow wore—

The child of her early love.
And meekly she bowed in the dying hour—
'Twas her Father's will that the fragile flower
Remove from the blight of an early bower

To the garden of God above.

Then away he flew with fiendish glee!
"I will visit the house of mirth," said he:
"'Tis seldom they meet with a guest like mo

In the blaze of the festive hall."
The spectre brandished his blood-stained lance,
The revellers shrank from his withering glance,
And a blackened corse in the mazy dance

Struck down was the "belle of the ball!"

In the banqueting hall of a castle old
Sat a stalwart warrior, grim and bold,
As rugged and gray as his own stronghold,

And the last of an ancient line.
The falcon eye of the stern old knight
Lit up with a wild unearthly light,
As he lifted on high the goblet bright

Brimful of the purple wine.

He had scoffed at Death on the blood-red plain,
'Mid the bristling steel and the leaden rain;
He had laughed to scorn, on the land and main.

The shell and the booming shot:
With the wine-cup now in his nervous grasp,
He is seized in the spectre's icy clasp;
One groan of horror—a shudder—a gasp—

And the warrior chief is not!

Thus the Angel of Death remorseless flings
The blighting shade of his leaden wings
O'er the cottage low and the domes of kings:

Over all he asserts his power.
Learn wisdom, then: let your life attest
That Death will not come an unwelcome guest:
Seek now the love that will make you blest

In the gloom of thy dying hour.

When the pulses of life beat faint and slow,
And the spirit is struggling, and pants to go,
The richest baubles that tempt below

But deepen the gathering gloom;
But light divine, with heavenly ray,
Will guide the soul on the radiant way
To the clime of the blest, for ever and aye

To live in Eternity's bloom.

P. J. Bailey. LOVE.

They sin who tell us Love can die.

With life all other passions fly;

All others are but vanity.

In heaven Ambition cannot dwell,

Nor Avarice in the vaults of hell:

Earthly these passions, of the earth—

They perish where they have their birth.

But Love is indestructible:

Its holy flame for ever burneth;

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth:

Too oft on earth a troubled guest,

At times deceived, at times opprest,

It here is tried and purified,

Then hath in heaven its perfect rest:

It soweth here with toil and care,

But the harvest time of Love is there.

SooinET,

THE PASSAGE OF TEE RED SEA.

They come!—they come!
See, see the sabre flashing through the gloom,
And the deadly scythe from out the battle-car,
And the lance-head glittering like a baleful star,

Portending Israel's doom!
Hark to the rolling of the chariot-wheel,

And the neighing of the war-horse in his ire,
And the fearful straining of his hoof of steel,
Spurning the mountain-flint that flashes fire!

Hark to the booming drum, The braying of the trumpet and the boastful cheer. Pealing in horrid echoes on the frighted ear !— They come!—they come!

They come !—they come! Now, now they've clambered up the gorge's height,

And for a moment, in its rugged jaws
(Like a fierce mountain-torrent gathering all its might
In one huge billow, ere it burst its banks at night)

They pause

Pennon and scarf, and gallant plumage fair,
Spread out and fluttering on the mountain air,
Like ocean's whitening spray.
Hark to the hum, *

The cheer, the charge, the bursting battle-cry!
Rider, and steed, and chariot headlong fly!
Down, down the mountain way
They come!

"Thou Mighty of Battles, for Israel's sake
Smite the crest of the horseman, the chariot-wheel break;
Check the speed of the swift, crush the arm of the strong,
And lead thine own people in safety along."

Lo! 'twixt that dread, exultant host,

And Israel's chastened, timid throng,
The awful pillar-cloud has crossed,
And Egypt, in its shadow lost,

In blind rage gropes along.

Near, and more near, with sullen roar
Beneath their feet the white surge raves;

The prophet-chief stands on the shore,

His eye upturned, his hand stretched o'er
The phosphorescent waves.

Deep yawn the ocean's billows wild,

Its coral depths disclosed are seen; The lashing surge sinks calm and mild, The mighty waves in walls are piled,

And Israel walks between!

While ever through that fearful night,

God's solemn, lustrous glory beams,
And safe beneath its holy light
His wondering people speed their flight

Between the harmless streams.

Onward the vengeful Pharaoh flies,

'Mid Egypt's lordly chivalry—
The mists of heaven are in their eyes,
The greedy waves o'erwhelm their prize,

And roar around in glee!

Slowly and chill the morning spreads

Its light along the lonely shore;
No billows lift their whitening heads,
The waves sleep in the cavern beds

Of ages long before.

See where the glittering water laves

The high and rugged coral coast,
The sea-bird screams along the waves,
And smells afar the timeless graves

Of Egypt's once proud host.

But Israel's hymn is pealing far
To God, that triumphs gloriously—

"The Lord, the mighty man of war,

That hurls the captain aud his car
Into the hungry sea."

And Israel's maids, with dance and glee,
And timbrel sweet, take up the strain—

"The Lord hath triumphed gloriously;

The Lord hath crushed the enemy,
And Israel's free again!"

Dublin University Magazine.

TO A WILD DEER.

Magnificent creature! so stately and bright!
In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight—
For what hath the child of the desert to dread,
Wafting up his own mountains that far-beaming head,
Or borne like a whirlwind down on the valet—
Hail! king of the wild and the beautiful!—hail!
Hail! idol divine !—whom nature hath borne
O'er a hundred hill-tops since the mists of the morn

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