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A cloud o'er the east spread its mantle of gloom,
Like Dispair as she raves round the Infidel's tonb;
Then slowly ascends till she wraps from the eye
The last star of night on the robe of the sky.
The seaman to quarters the master commands,
The cordage plays warm through the mariner's hands,
But ere to the ship they can safety afford,
The main and the foremast are swept by the board.
The seas roll in mountains and deluge the deck,
The vessel, ungovern'd, drives swiftly a wreck;
The sufferers call but the effort is vain,
For ruin and death have the rule of the main.
O Fisher! I knew thee when childhood's sweet charms,
Were fondly caress’d in a mother's soft arms:
I knew thee in youth; for how oft did we rove
Through the shade of some distant and sheltering grove.
Fair science our theme, and distinction our aim,
We dream'd of the bays that our merit might claiın;
But death has forbid thee to honour us more,
And merg’d thee in ocean, far, far from our shore.
Thy virtue was pure as the breath of that morn,
When man on the bosom of Eden was born:
Thy genius was bright as the first vermeil ray
That sheds on the hill-tops the splendour of day.
May pinions of light to thy spirit be given,
With Newton to range through the science of heaven;
There sorrow and darkness no longer control,
But fountains of knowledge spring fresh in the soul.
By W. B. TAPPAN.
The storm is weathered, and the fiend Dispair,
Who the long weary day stood sullen by,
Hath fled. And now is heard the frequent prayer
From grateful altars wafted; in each eye
Hope lights her beacon,-busy fancy now
Sketches fond scenes of bliss, for port is near;-
“Pierre" is the signature of Solymap Brown, formerly a resident of this state.-Eds. Herald.
The proud ship cleaves the foam with steady prow,
The sea-boy sings of home, by peril made more dear.
'Tis deathly slumber, sure, not calm repose,
The sleep of agony hath seized them; why
Eise this deep lethargy? (, can ye close
Your lids, when Desolation marches by?
Or quiet dream, when horror waits ye soon?--
Waken, ye tempest tost? Wherefore?—the wave,
Whose altitude mocks heaven, rolling on,
Will soon receive yo, -ready is your coral grave.
The morning smiles, the breeze is fraught with balm,
Hibernia seems freshly from the main
To spring, beauteous and young. Nature is calın.
Far, far, unruffled, spreads the billowy plain,
God's handy work, the world of waters, where
The elements disport, and He is seen
In strength pavilioned, on His cloudy car,
Riding the wild night storm, and bumbling this terrene.
The morning smiles, the ocean billow sleeps,-
But where the tall ship that late ploughed its breast,
The gallant Albion?—Pity, shuddering, weeps;
No more,- only, that on the dark wave's crest
That night at times, were dimly seen, 'tis said,
Some forms of misery, whose hands in vain
Were lift imploring,—they sunk with the dead,
And piteous cries and shrieks were heard,—'twas still again.
Yet Thou,* the child of feeling, shalt receive
The tribute of warm tears. Around thy name
Mercy will twine her never-fading wreath,
Fairer than trophies won by heirs of fame;
Thou gavest, what ocean had denied, a shroud,
With rites of sepulture. I am yet proud
Of mankind, for thy sake, God's benizon
On thee!—the deed shall live when thy sand, too, hath run.
ON THE MELANCHOLY SHIPWREOK OF THE ALBION.
From the Liverpool Courier.
If ever sorrow moved the manly breast,
Or grief distillid did proof of pity speak;
• Jacob Mark, Esq. U. S. Consul at Kinsale.
Those pearly symbols now will stand confest,
And roll in silence down the seaman's cheek. The gallant ship no more! O bitter truth,
The lady fair, and her protectors brave, The rich, the poor, the aged, and the youth,
Have found alike a gloomy deep sea grave. The Albion's lost, and Williams is no more,
The kind, the brave, the seaman and the friend; Ev’n holy men, who do their God adore,
Will, o'er the news, in silent anguish bend. Mourn, friendship mourn, and pay a tribute there,
A big tear drop to blend with ocean’s wave; Then tell the stoic, Nature can't forbear
To think of Williams and his deep sea grave. Columbia's seamen will the loss deplore,
Whilst Britons mourn the glass so quickly run; Responding grief resounds from shore to shore,
And owns, in point of love, they are but one. Mysterious Providence had veild the woe
In shades impervious to sense or pride; All we or monarchs are allowed to know,
Is that a man hath lived and then hath died.
O God! behold, with pitying eye the flood,
And cause the gloom to beam a moral ray;
O consecrate the loss for public good,
Till countless ages
shall have rolled away.
From the New York Commercial Advertiser.
Swift across the Atlantic's breast,
Speed the gallant Albion,
When the sun set in the west,
And the blush of day was gone
Proudly o’er the billows blue,
Spread each wide expanded sail,
Then all hearts beat high, nor knew
Death was lurking in the gale!
Night her raven mantle threw
O’er the waters, dark and wild-
And the tempest-spirit tiew
Where so late the sun had smil'd
In the cloud-envelop'd sky
Ruin showed his awful form,
While the seaman's fear ful cry
Mingled with the raging storm.
Then fair woman's dying wail
Echoed on the foaming surge,
Mingling with the midnight gale,
By Hibernia's rocky verge-
Then the chief * who stood the fight
By thy side Napoleon,
Trembled as the tempest's might
Shook the fated Albion.
Hark! that shout of wild dismay-
That death-groan of agony,
In the deep devouring sea:-
See the mountain billows swell
O'er the reeling Albion
Hark! that loud and last farewell,
She is heaving-she is gone!
New York, 1 June, 1822.
By Sir Robert Ayton, 1650.
I do confess thee sweet and fair,
And near I might have gone to love thee,
Had I not found the slighest prayer
That lips could speak, had power to move thee;
But I can let thee now alone
As worthy to be loved by none.
I did pronounce thee sweet, yet find
Thee so regardless of thy sweets,
Thy favours are too like the wind
'Phat kisseth every thing it meets;
And since thou rovest with more than one,
Thou art worthy to be loved by none.
The morning rose, that untouched stands,
Armed with her briars, how sweetly smells;
But, plucked and soiled by vulgar hands,
Her sweet no longer with her dwells,
But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her one by one.
Such fate ere long will thee betide,
When thou hast handled been awhile,
Like withered blossoms cast aside,
And I shall sigh, while some will smile
To see thy love to every one
Hath brought thee to be loved by none,
Written on the death of Professor Fisher, by Dr. James G.
From the (New Haven) National Pilot.
We ask no flowers to deck thy tomb,
Thy name in purer light shall bloom;
flower on earth is dead,
And all that bloom below are fled.
To thee, the light of mind was given,
The centre of thy soul was heaven;
In early youth the spirit came,
And wrapped thee in its wings of fame.
The lambent light that round thee flowed,
Rose to its high and bright abode;
And bore thy restless eye afar,
To read the fate of sun and star.
Fain would we think the chain is broke,
That bound thy spirit to its yoke;
That now no mist of earth can blind
Thy bright, thy pure and perfect mind.
Thy grave is on a foreign strand,
Thy tomb is in a foreign land;
No kinsman came, no friend was near,
To close thine eye and deck thy bier.
But friends shall gather round thy tomb
And long lament thy early doom;
And thither science oft repair,
To plant thy choicest laurels there.
NEW YEAR ADDRESS, Of the Carrier of the Illinois Gazette to his Patrons on the first