An army now might thunder past,

And they heed not its roar.

The starry flag 'neath which they fought,
In many a bloody day,

From their old graves shall rouse them not,
For they have passed away.

GOD

Epes Sargent.

THE MISSING SHIP.

OD speed the noble PRESIDENT! A gallant boat is she,

As ever entered harbour, or crossed a stormy sea;

Like some majestic castle she floats upon the stream;

The good ships moored beside her, like pigmy shallops seem!

How will her mighty bulwarks the dashing surges brave!
How will her iron sinews make way 'gainst wind and wave!
Farewell, thou stately vessel! ye voyagers, farewell!
Securely on that deck shall ye the tempest's shock repel.

The stately vessel left us in all her bold array;
A glorious sight, O landsmen! as she glided down our bay;
Her flags were waving joyously, and, from her ribs of oak.
Farewell" to all the city, her guns in thunder spoke.

Flee, on thy vapoury pinions! back, back to England flee! Where patient watchers by the strand have waited long for

thee;

Where kindred hearts are beating to welcome home thy

crew,

And tearful eyes gaze constantly across the waters blue!

Alas, ye watchers by the strand! weeks, months have rolled

away,

But where where is the President? and why is this delay? Return, pale mourners, to your homes! ye gaze, and gaze in vain :

Oh, never shall that pennoned mast salute your eyes again!

And now our hopes, like morning stars, have, one by one, gone out;

And mute despair subdues, at length, the agony of doubt; But still Affection lifts the torch by night along the shore, And lingers by the surf-beat rocks, to marvel, to deplore!

In dreams I see the fated ship torn by the northern blast; About her tempest-riven track the white fog gathers fast; When lo! above the swathing mist their heads the icebergs lift,

In lucent grandeur, to the clouds-vast continents adrift!

One mingled shriek of awe goes up at that stupendous sight;

Now, helmsman, for a hundred lives, oh guide the helm aright!

Vain prayer!-she strikes! and, thundering down, the avalanches fall;

Crushed, whelmed, the stately vessel sinks-the cold sea covers all!

Anon, unresting Fancy holds a direr scene to view :

The burning ship, the fragile raft, the pale and dying crew!

Ah me! was such their maddening fate upon the billowy brine?

Give up, remorseless Ocean! a relic and a sign !

No answer cometh from the deep to tell the tale we dread :
No messenger of weal or woe returneth from the dead:
But Hope, through tears, looks up and sees, from earthly
haven driven,

The lost ones meet in fairer realms, where storms reach not-in heaven!

Philip Pendleton Cooke.

LIFE IN THE AUTUMN WOODS.

SUMMER has

gone,

And fruitful Autumn has advanced so far

That there is warmth, not heat, in the broad sun,
And you may look, with naked eye, upon
The ardours of his car;

The stealthy frosts, whom his spent looks embolden,
Are making the green leaves golden.

What a brave splendour

Is in the October air! how rich, and clear,
And bracing, and all-joyous! We must render
Love to the Spring-time, with its sproutings tender,
As to a child quite dear;

But Autumn is a thing of perfect glory,

A manhood not yet hoary.

I love the woods,

In this good season of the liberal year;
I love to seek their leafy solitudes,
And give myself to melancholy moods,
With no intruder near,

And find strange lessons, as I sit and ponder,
In every natural wonder.

But not alone,

AS SHAKSPEARE'S melancholy courtier loved Ardennes,
Love I the browning forest; and I own

I would not oft have mused, as he, but flown
To hunt with AMIENS-

And little thought, as up the bold deer bounded,
Of the sad creature wounded.

A brave and good,

But world-worn knight-soul-wearied with his part
In this vexed life—gave man for solitude,
And built a lodge, and lived in Wantley wood,
To hear the belling Hart.

It was a gentle taste, but its sweet sadness
Yields to the Hunter's madness.

What passionate

And keen delight is in the proud swift chase!
Go out what time the lark at heaven's red gate
Soars joyously singing quite infuriate

With the high pride of his place;

What time the unrisen sun arrays the morning
In its first bright adorning.

Hark! the quick horn—

As sweet to hear as any clarion

Piercing with silver call the ear of morn;
And mark the steeds, stout Curtal and Topthorne,
And Greysteil and the Don-

Each one of them his fiery mood displaying
With pawing and with neighing.

Urge your swift horse,

After the crying hounds in this fresh hour,
Vanquish high hills-stem perilous streams perforce,
On the free plain give free wings to your course,
And will know the power

you

Of the brave chase—and how of griefs the sorest
A cure is in the forest.

Or stalk the deer;

The same red lip of dawn has kissed the hills,
The gladdest sounds are crowding on your ear,
There is a life in all the atmosphere :-

Your very nature fills

With the fresh hour, as up the hills aspiring
You climb with limbs untiring.

It is a fair

And goodly sight to see the antlered stag,
With the long sweep of his swift walk repair
To join his brothers; or the plethoric bear
Lying on some high crag,

With pinky eyes half closed, but broad head shaking,
As gad-flies keep him waking.

And these you see,

And seeing them, you travel to their death
With a slow, stealthy step, from tree to tree,
Noting the wind, however faint it be.