THE STEAMBOAT.

SEE how you flaming herald treads
The ridged and rolling waves,
As, crashing o'er their crested heads,
She bows her surly slaves !
With foam before and fire behind,

She rends the clinging sea,
That flies before the roaring wind,
Beneath her hissing lee.

The morning spray, ers,

And many a foresail, scooped and strained,

Shall break from yard and stay, Before this smoky wreath has stained The rising mist of day.

Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud,

I see yon quivering mast;

The black throat of the hunted cloud
Is panting forth the blast!

like sea-born flow- An hour, and, whirled like winnowing

With heaped and glistening bells, Falls round her fast, in ringing show

ers,

With every wave that swells;

And, burning o'er the midnight deep,
In lurid fringes thrown,

The living gems of ocean sweep
Along her flashing zone.

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel,

And smoking torch on high,

chaff,

The giant surge shall fling
His tresses o'er yon pennon staff,

White as the sea-bird's wing!

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep;
Nor wind nor wave shall tire
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap

With floods of living fire;

Sleep on, and, when the morning

light

Streams o'er the shining bay,

When winds are loud, and billows reel, O think of those for whom the night

She thunders foaming by;

When seas are silent and serene,

With even beam she glides,

The sunshine glimmering through the

green

That skirts her gleaming sides.

Now, like a wild nymph, far apart
She veils her shadowy form,
The beating of her restless heart

Still sounding through the storm;
Now answers, like a courtly dame,

The reddening surges o'er,
With flying scarf of spangled flame,

The Pharos of the shore.

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep,

Who trims his narrowed sail;
To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep
Her broad breast to the gale;

Shall never wake in day!

LEXINGTON.

SLOWLY the mist o'er the meadow was

creeping,

Bright on the dewy buds glistened

the sun,

When from his couch, while his children were sleeping,

Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.

Waving her golden veil

Over the silent dale,

Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire;

Hushed was his parting sigh,

While from his noble eye

Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire.

Calmly the first-born of glory have Ere the dark hunters the herd have

From their far hamlets the yeomanry Girded for battle, from mountain to

Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and

They were a free and jovial race, but The little Captain stood and stirred the

honest, brave, and true, That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new.

posset with his sword,

And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board.

A Spanish galleon brought the bar; so He poured the fiery Hollands in,—the

runs the ancient tale;

"T was hammered by an Antwerp smith,
whose arin was like a flail;

And now and then between the strokes,
for fear his strength should fail,
He wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup
of good old Flemish ale.

man that never feared,
He took a long and solemn draught, and
wiped his yellow beard;

And one by one the musketeers - the
men that fought and prayed
All drank as 't were their mother's
milk, and not a man afraid.

"T was purchased by an English squire That night, affrighted from his nest, the to please his loving dame, screaming eagle flew,

Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, longing for the same; the soldier's wild halloo;

And oft as on the ancient stock another And there the sachem learned the rule

And then, of course, you know what's

next, it left the Dutchman's shore With those that in the Mayflower came, - a hundred souls and more, Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes,

hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows, thousand rubs had flattened down

each little cherub's nose,

When once again the bowl was filled.
but not in mirth or joy,
'T was mingled by a mother's hand to
cheer her parting boy.

Drink, John, she said, 't will do you
good, - poor child, you'll never
bear

This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air;

And if

God bless me! - you were hurt, 't would keep away the chill; To judge by what is still on hand, at So John did drink, —and well he

least a hundred loads.

wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!

"I was on a dreary winter's eve, the I tell you, there was generous warmth night was closing dim, in good old English cheer; When brave Miles Standish took the I tell you, 't was a pleasant thought to bowl, and filled it to the brim;

bring its symbol here;

'Tis but the fool that loves excess; | But soon they knocked the wigwams hast thou a drunken soul? Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in

And pine-tree trunk and limb
Began to sprout among the leaves

In shape of steeples slim ;

- its And out the little wharves were stretched Along the ocean's rim,

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear But when the Greek and Hebrew words

The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er The copper-colored children all

The crows came cawing through the air God bless the ancient Puritans !

The bears came snuffing round the door But honest hearts make iron arms,

And through the woods, and o'er the hill, Each moment fainter wave the fields,