THE CORAL GROVE.

DEEP in the wave is a coral grove,
Where the purple mullet, and gold-fish rove,
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never are wet with falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine,
Far down in the green and glassy brine.
The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift,
And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow;
From coral rocks the sea plants lift

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow; The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air;
There with its waving blade of green,

The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen

To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter: There with a light and easy motion,

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea.
And life, in rare and beautiful form,

Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms,
Has made the top of the waves his own:
And when the ship from his fury flies,

Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore;

Then far below in the peaceful sea,

The purple mullet, and gold-fish rove, Where the waters murmur tranquilly,

Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

SORROW.

SORROW is uneasiness in the mind, upon the thought of a good lost, which might have been enjoyed longer; or the sense of a present evil. The sharpest and most melting sorrow is that which arises from the loss of those whom we have loved with tenderness.

The safe and general antidote against sorrow is employment. Whoever will keep his thoughts continually busy, will find himself less affected with irretrievable losses.

Sorrow is a kind of rust to the soul, which every new idea contributes to scour away. It is the putrefaction of stagnant life, and is remedied by exercise and motion.

Truths! hardly earned and lately brought

From many a far forgotten scene!
Had I but listened as I ought,

To your words sage, serene,

Oh! what might I not have been
In the realms of thought!

THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

ALONE to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube,
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er:

Oh, whither, she cried, hast thou wander'd, my true love,
Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore ?
What voice have I heard? 't was my Henry that sigh'd;
All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far,
When bleeding and low, on the heath, she descried,
By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar.

From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming,
And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar,
And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,
That melted in love, and that kindled in war→
How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight!
How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war!

Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night,
To cheer the lone heart of thy wounded Hussar ?

Thou shalt live, she replied, heaven's mercy relieving
Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn.
Ah! no, the last pang in my bosom is heaving;
No light of the morn shall to Henry return :
Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!
Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!
His faltering tongue, could scarce murmur, adieu!
When he sank in her
arms, the poor wounded Hussar.

NONE COMPLETELY HAPPY. EDEN. 343 1

NONE ARE COMPLETELY HAPPY.

So many and so various are the evils incident to human nature, and so frequently are our greatest earthly comforts dashed with alloys of pain and uneasiness, that no state of life, whether of youth or age, of riches or poverty, of grandeur or meanness, is exempt from difficulties and troubles. To hope for perfect happiness is vain; Even joy has ever its alloys of pain.

Since then, an entire and unmixed happiness is not to be expected in our present state, let us not be too sanguine in our wishes to find it here, but place our happiness on things above, and on that state which approaches nearest to it; which is doing our duty in whatever station God has pleased to place us.

THE GARDEN OF EDEN.

THUS was this place

A happy rural seat of various view;

Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm,
Others whose fruit, burnish'd with golden rind,

Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true,

If true, here only, and of delicious taste!

Betwixt them, lawns, or level downs, and flocks
Grazing the tender herb, were interposed,

Or palmy hillock; or the flowery lap

Of some irriguous valley spread her store,
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose!
Another side, umbrageous grots and caves
Of cool recess, o'er which the mantling vine
Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps
Luxuriant; meanwhile murmuring waters fall
Down the slope hills, dispersed, or in a lake,

That to the fringed bank with myrtle crown'd
Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams.
The birds their choir apply; airs, vernal airs,
Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune
The trembling leaves, while universal Pan,
Knit with the Graces and the Houries in dance,
Led on th' eternal Spring.

ON THE LOSS OF PROFESSOR FISHER,

OF YALE

COLLEGE.

THE breath of air that stirs the harp's soft string,
Floats on to join the whirlwind and the storm;
The drops of dew exhaled from flowers of spring,
Rise and assume the tempest's threatening form;
The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun,

Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash;
And the smooth stream, that flows in quiet on,
Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash
That wave and wind can muster, when the might
Of earth, and air, and sea, and sky unite.

So science whisper'd in thy charmed ear,
And radiant learning beckon'd thee away.
The breeze was music to thee, and the clear

Beam of thy morning promised a bright day.
And they have wreck'd thee! - But there is a shore
Where storms are hush'd, where tempests never rage;

Where angry skies and blackening seas, no more
With gusty strength their roaring warfare wage.
By thee its peaceful margent shall be trod―
Thy home is Heaven, and thy friend is God.