O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is Haunted!

THE MARY.

A SEA-SIDE SKETCH.

Lov'st thou not, Alice, with the early tide To see the hardy Fisher hoist his mast, And stretch his sail towards the ocean wide,-- Like God's own beadsman going forth to cast His net into the deep, which doth provide Enormous bounties, hidden in its vast Bosom like Charity's, for all who seek And take its gracious boon thankful and meek?

The sea is bright with morning,--but the dark Seems still to linger on his broad black sail, For it is early hoisted, like a mark For the low sun to shoot at with his pale And level beams: All round the shadowy bark The green wave glimmers, and the gentle gale Swells in her canvas, till the waters show The keel's new speed, and whiten at the bow.

Then look abaft--(for thou canst understand That phrase)--and there he sitteth at the stern, Grasping the tiller in his broad brown hand, The hardy Fisherman. Thou may'st discern Ten fathoms off the wrinkles in the tann'd And honest countenance that he will turn To look upon us, with a quiet gaze-- As we are passing on our several ways.

So, some ten days ago, on such a morn, The Mary, like a seamew, sought her spoil Amongst the finny race: 'twas when the corn Woo'd the sharp sickle, and the golden toil Summon'd all rustic hands to fill the horn Of Ceres to the brim, that brave turmoil Was at the prime, and Woodgate went to reap His harvest too, upon the broad blue deep.

His mast was up, his anchor heaved aboard, His mainsail stretching in the first gray gleams Of morning, for the wind. Ben's eye was stored With fishes--fishes swam in all his dreams, And all the goodly east seem'd but a hoard Of silvery fishes, that in shoals and streams Groped into the deep dusk that fill'd the sky, For him to catch in meshes of his eye.

For Ben had the true sailor's sanguine heart, And saw the future with a boy's brave thought, No doubts, nor faint misgivings had a part In his bright visions--ay, before he caught His fish, he sold them in the scaly mart, And summ'd the net proceeds. This should have brought Despair upon him when his hopes were foil'd, But though one crop was marr'd, again he toil'd;

And sow'd his seed afresh.--Many foul blights Perish'd his hard-won gains--yet he had plann'd No schemes of too extravagant delights-- No goodly houses on the Goodwin sand-- But a small humble home, and loving nights, Such as his honest heart and earnest hand Might fairly purchase. Were these hopes too airy?

Such as they were, they rested on thee, Mary.

She was the prize of many a toilsome year, And hardwon wages, on the perilous sea-- Of savings ever since the shipboy's tear Was shed for home, that lay beyond the lee;-- She was purveyor for his other dear Mary, and for the infant yet to be Fruit of their married loves. These made him dote Upon the homely beauties of his boat,

Whose pitch-black hull roll'd darkly on the wave, No gayer than one single stripe of blue Could make her swarthy sides. She seem'd a slave, A negro among boats--that only knew Hardship and rugged toil--no pennons brave Flaunted upon the mast--but oft a few Dark dripping jackets flutter'd to the air, Ensigns of hardihood and toilsome care.

And when she ventured for the deep, she spread A tawny sail against the sunbright sky, Dark as a cloud that journeys overhead-- But then those tawny wings were stretch'd to fly Across the wide sea desert for the bread Of babes and mothers--many an anxious eye Dwelt on her course, and many a fervent pray'r Invoked the Heavens to protect and spare.

Where is she now? The secrets of the deep Are dark and hidden from the human ken; Only the sea-bird saw the surges sweep Over the bark of the devoted Ben,-- Meanwhile a widow sobs and orphans weep, And sighs are heard from weatherbeaten men, Dark sunburnt men, uncouth and rude and hairy, While loungers idly ask, "Where is the Mary?"

THE LADY'S DREAM.

The lady lay in her bed, Her couch so warm and soft, But her sleep was restless and broken still; For turning often and oft From side to side, she mutter'd and moan'd, And toss'd her arms aloft.

At last she startled up, And gazed on the vacant air, With a look of awe, as if she saw Some dreadful phantom there-- And then in the pillow she buried her face From visions ill to bear.

The very curtain shook, Her terror was so extreme; And the light that fell on the broider'd quilt Kept a tremulous gleam; And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried:-- "Oh me! that awful dream"!

"That weary, weary walk, In the churchyard's dismal ground!

And those horrible things, with shady wings, That came and flitted round,-- Death, death, and nothing but death, In every sight and sound!

"And oh! those maidens young, Who wrought in that dreary room, With figures drooping and spectres thin, And cheeks without a bloom;-- And the Voice that cried, 'For the pomp of pride, We haste to an early tomb!

"'For the pomp and pleasure of Pride, We toil like Afric slaves, And only to earn a home at last, Where yonder cypress waves;'-- And then they pointed--I never saw A ground so full of graves!

"And still the coffins came, With their sorrowful trains and slow; Coffin after coffin still, A sad and sickening show; From grief exempt, I never had dreamt Of such a World of Woe!

"Of the hearts that daily break, Of the tears that hourly fall, Of the many, many troubles of life, That grieve this earthly ball-- Disease and Hunger, and Pain, and Want, But now I dreamt of them all!

"For the blind and the cripple were there, And the babe that pined for bread, And the houseless man, and the widow poor Who begged--to bury the dead; The naked, alas, that I might have clad, The famish'd I might have fed!

"The sorrow I might have sooth'd, And the unregarded tears; For many a thronging shape was there, From long-forgotten years, Ay, even the poor rejected Moor, Who raised my childish fears!

"Each pleading look, that long ago I scann'd with a heedless eye, Each face was gazing as plainly there, As when I pass'd it by: Woe, woe for me if the past should be Thus present when I die!

"No need of sulphurous lake, No need of fiery coal, But only that crowd of human kind Who wanted pity and dole-- In everlasting retrospect-- Will wring my sinful soul!

"Alas! I have walk'd through life Too heedless where I trod; Nay, helping to trample my fellow-worm, And fill the burial sod-- Forgetting that even the sparrow falls Not unmark'd of God!

"I drank the richest draughts; And ate whatever is good-- Fish, and flesh, and fowl, and fruit, Supplied my hungry mood; But I never remember'd the wretched ones That starve for want of food!

"I dress'd as the noble dress, In cloth of silver and gold, With silk, and satin, and costly furs, In many an ample fold; But I never remember'd the naked limbs That froze with winter's cold.

"The wounds I might have heal'd!

The human sorrow and smart!

And yet it never was in my soul To play so ill a part: But evil is wrought by want of Thought, As well as want of Heart!"

She clasp'd her fervent hands, And the tears began to stream; Large, and bitter, and fast they fell, Remorse was so extreme; And yet, oh yet, that many a Dame Would dream the Lady's Dream!

THE KEY.

A MOORISH ROMANCE.

"On the east coast, towards Tunis, the Moors still preserve the key of their ancestors' houses in Spain; to which country they still express the hopes of one day returning and again planting the crescent on the ancient walls of the Alhambra."--SCOTT'S _Travels in Morocco and Algiers_.

"Is Spain cloven in such a manner as to want closing?"

SANCHO PANZA.

The Moor leans on his cushion, With the pipe between his lips; And still at frequent intervals The sweet sherbet he sips; But, spite of lulling vapor And the sober cooling cup, The spirit of the swarthy Moor Is fiercely kindling up!

One hand is on his pistol, On its ornamented stock, While his finger feels the trigger And is busy with the lock-- The other seeks his ataghan, And clasps its jewell'd hilt-- Oh! much of gore in days of yore That crooked blade has spilt!

His brows are knit, his eyes of jet In vivid blackness roll, And gleam with fatal flashes Like the fire-damp of the coal; His jaws are set, and through his teeth He draws a savage breath, As if about to raise the shout Of Victory or Death!

For why? the last Zebeck that came And moor'd within the Mole, Such tidings unto Tunis brought As stir his very soul-- The cruel jar of civil war, The sad and stormy reign, That blackens like a thunder cloud The sunny land of Spain!

No strife of glorious Chivalry, For honor's gain or loss, Nor yet that ancient rivalry, The Crescent with the Cross.

No charge of gallant Paladins On Moslems stern and stanch; But Christians shedding Christian blood Beneath the olive's branch!