Was warn'd-ere yet the torrent's roar O'er which its current soon must sweep. While the gay tints of western flame GEORGE W. PATTEN, A NATIVE of Newport, Rhode Island, was graduated at Brown University, in 1825. He is now a cadet in the United States' Military Academy at West Point. THE ISLE OF LOVE. THERE's a bright sunny spot where the cinnamon trees Light breezes are swelling the gossamer sail, Soft music is there-for the mermaiden's shell, While I list to the notes as they float on the lea, Far-far 'mid its bowers sequester'd and lone, THE WARRIOR. "THE morning sun is shining bright upon the battle plain, And still thou sleep'st!-wake! warrior, wake-and take thy steed again, The gore he's shaken from his mane, and now 't is floating fast, Upon the breeze as it was wont amid the battle blast, Thrice hath the war-peal thunder'd past since thou hast sunk to sleep, Hath not it changed thy dreary dream, nor broke thy slumber deep? Thrice hath the foemen's banner red in triumph floated by; "Hush! gentle stranger, hush that strain," a weeping mother sung, And sadly on the sighing winds the mournful music rung, Hush, gentle stranger, hush that strain-my heart is lone and drear, Thou canst not wake my warrior boy, who sleeps in silence here. I've comb'd his flowing flaxen hair, and from it wipe the dew, Come, gaze upon the features pale, which oft I've loved to view, And if thy bosom e'er hath throbb'd a warrior's joys to know, Oh! read them on that sunken cheek--and in a mother's wo. -They said, my boy, that Fame would twine a laurel green for thee, Alas! alas! that it should leave the cypress sad to me.'" THE MOTHER. "SHE sleeps! how long she sleeps! the sun hath sunk beneath the west, And risen twice, yet still she keeps that deep and placid rest. Why do they pass before me thus, her slumbering form to view? Come hither, brother, thou and I will gaze upon her too; And then together we will go and view her in her sleep." "Sister! tread softly! hark! that sound! 't was but the midnight hour Tolling so harsh and heavily from yonder distant tower; now, To come at midnight hour and gaze upon thy mother's brow. it be, It is the same which in thy mirth so oft was press'd by thee. And clasp in thine the lifeless hand that lays upon her breast, Where pillow'd in thine infant years thou oft hast sunk to rest." "My eyes grow dim!-sweet brother, haste! and come with me away! Is this the form which once I loved! this ghastly thing of clay? They told me that she only slept-and that she still was fair, As when upon her brow I used to part her raven hair. Is this my mother?—No, oh no, not this on which I've gazed, Her eyes were bright like angel's eyes, but these are fix'd and glazed, Her lips were smiling like the sky that never knew a cloud; But these are silent, closed and pale-pale as the winding shroud. My eyes grow dim, sweet brother, haste and come with me away No, this is not the form I loved-this ghastly thing of clay." WILLIS G, CLARK, A NATIVE of Otisco, Onondaga county, New York, at present editor of The Ladies' Literary Port Folio, in Philadelphia. LINES WRITTEN AT AN UNKNOWN GRAVE. A MOURNFUL tone the night-air brings, about this lonely tomb, Like thoughts of fair and faded things amid life's changeful gloom; Deep shadows of the past are here!-and fancy wanders back, When joy woke in this mouldering breast, now pass'd from life's worn track: When hope made glad his spirit here, as the pure summer rain Pours its sweet influence on the earth, with all her flowery train; While buds were tossing in the breeze beneath a deep blue sky And pleasure's chant was in his ear, ere he had gone to die! Youth, too, was his-its morning hour-its sunlight for his brow |