THE DARK WAVE OF ERIE.

'Tis midnight, the dark wave of Erie flows lone,
'Mid the gloom of the forest that shadows it round;
The slow-winding surge lends its deep sullen moan,
And the rock-beating billow remurmurs the sound.

'Tis midnight, and see, 'mid the gleam of the wave,
Where 'neath the cold ray their sad vigils they keep;
In the mists of the foaming, the souls of the brave,
As all lonely, they march o'er the cliff of the deep.

'Tis midnight; they tell when the thunder of war, Proclaimed the approach of the dark battle fray,* When the shrill-blast and death-drum, rolled deeply and far,

While the angel of blood hovered high o'er his prey.

* The memorable 10th of September, 1813.

Look afar, 'tis hope's symbol, the flag of the FREE! Through the red cloud it gleams on the war-wounded

mast;

Proud stripes! soon to wave o'er the broad-crested sea, Bright pledge of the future, the pride of the past.

The tall barks in conflict ensulphured, have neared, Death gleams on the blade as they charge on the foe; Hark, 'tis the glad shout of valour and victory heard, Columbia, thy foemen in battle are low!

*

'Neath the dark waves of Erie now slumber the brave, In the deep bed of waters, forever, they rest;

The proud wreaths of freedom have bannered their

grave,

The souls of the heroes in memory are blest.

STANZAS.

WHAT heart that Hope hath not misled In fancy's early dream?

Who hath not revelled in the sweets

Of childhood's careless day.

'Tis painful, mid the wreck of time

Eternally gone by,

To scan the bliss of other years,

Bliss, that shall ne'er return.

Of calm, unruffled joy:

To others, 'tis a troubled deep

Of wretchedness and tears.

For me, awaits no airy dream,
Of pure unclouded joy;

Anticipation dims my way,

And retrospection grieves.

And what is Earth?-a wildering maze,

Alluring, yet untrue;

The heir of hope may smile,-the child
Of misery may die.

To him, by secret wo oppressed,

The world bestows no sigh;

Ne'er smooths his pillow, or bedews

His unobtrusive grave;

Yet there are those that keenly feel

The wounds a friend endures;

The griefs their own sad hearts have known Excite kind sympathy.

I ask not for the false lament
Wealth's minion would bestow;
Give me, in life's expiring pang,
That tear of POVERTY.

LINES,

IN MEMORY OF WILLIAM HASLETT, OF PHILADELPHIA,

WHO DIED AT WOODVILLE, MISS. JULY, 1821.

How calm the slumbers of the dead,
Where God protects the hallowed clay;
Religion consecrates the bed,

Where they await the Saviour's day.
They rest in hope, though seen no more,
Memory their virtues shall renew;

From time's rough billow freed, the shore
Is theirs, where all is brightly true.
Servant of Christ! the meed divine

That crowns the just when life hath run,
The wreath of deathless love is thine,
The plaudit of thy God-" WELL DONE!"
Borne on affliction's stormy deep,
The path thy Saviour trod before,
'Twas thine in solitude to weep,
Yet lowly, meekly to adore.