Perhaps thy shade

Hath often screened our sires

From summer's ray,

And autumn's milder fires;
Beneath thy boughs reclined
Visions of ages rose;

They saw a nation free,
Triumphant o'er its foes.

Perchance, in each fond heart
Was liberal feeling found,
They, too, wept sorrow's smart,
And smiled in pleasure's round:
The voice of friendship

Could lull each bosom care;

The song of love

Could waken rapture there.

Where are they?

Thou saw'st them disappear;

They sleep in clay,

Forgotten is the tear.

And we shall follow;

Yes, hoary tree,

Thy arms will brave the blast,

When we to our eternity

Have past.

THE PIRATE-SHIP.

MIDNIGHT reigns; -on the ocean Calmly sleeps the starry beam; Steady is the barque's proud motion, Peaceful is the sailor's dream.

Sailor, waken, death is near,

Waken from deceitful sleep;

Sailor, ere the dawn appear,

Thou shalt slumber in the deep.

Lightly on the riven wave,

Bounding swift, with murderous mein,
Ploughing o'er its victim's grave,
Lo, the PIRATE-SHIP is seen.

Gorged from guilt's infernal womb,
Lurk around the savage crew;
On each brow, the fiend of gloom
Stamps its seal, to horror true.

Luxury of crime is theirs,
Dead to feeling, as to fear;
Cruelty each bosom shares,
Banqueting on sorrow's tear.

Gold their idol, to the god
Nightly, fearful orgies rise;
Rites accursed, steeped in blood,
Mark the human sacrifice.

Like a demon ripe from hell,
See the chieftain stalk apart;
Hark, his voice, 'tis misery's knell,
Joy alone could writhe his heart.

Dear to him is childhood's moan, Female shrieks to him are bliss; Mercy, canst thou rear thy throne In a bosom seared like this?

Now with crime-accursed mirth, Horrid laughter shakes the sky; Drunk with blood, the stain of earth,

Join in fearful revelry.

Sailor, waken, death is near,

Waken from deceitful sleep;

Sailor, ere the dawn appear,
Thou shalt slumber in the deep.

STANZAS.

THE Source of Charity is pure,
From boasting ever free;

The living essence must endure,
Drawn from Divinity.

Superior to the stores of art,
Or gifts by heaven bestowed,
It consecrates the willing heart,

A temple meet for God.

And should that Power each wish fulfil

With science' richest meed,

If Charity be absent, still

My soul is poor indeed.

For Charity endureth long,

And never fails in love;

Here would I rest, for here belong

My hopes of heaven above.

O WHAT IS LIFE.

O what is life but some dark dream,
From which we wake to sigh?

Some false, deceitful meteor beam,
That sheds a wandering, cheerless gleam,
And brightens but to die?

O what are fleeting joys below,
But cares bedecked with smiles,-

The pageant of an empty show,

That fain would hide the latent wo

From him it oft beguiles?

And what the secret, pensive tear,
But kindly dews of even?

Each drop, pellucid, glistening clear,
To sympathy, to virtue dear,
Is quick exhaled to heaven.