Of the vine of sculpture, led
O'er the soffit overhead,

Was a fancy of the dead
Of Tuloom.

Here are corridors, and there,
From the terrace, goes a stair;
And the way is broad and fair
To the room

Where the inner altar stands ;
And the mortar's tempered sands
Bear the print of human hands,
In Tuloom.

O'er the sunny ocean swell,
The canòas running well
Toward the Isle of Cozumel

Cleave the spume;

On they run, and never halt

Where the shimmer, from the salt,

Makes a twinkle in the vault

Of Tuloom.

When the night is wild and dark,
And a roar is in the park,
And the lightning, to its mark,

Cuts the gloom,

All the region, on the sight,
Rushes upward from the night,
In a thunder-crash of light
O'er Tuloom.

Oh! could such a flash recall
All the flamens to their hall,
All the idols on the wall,

In the fume

Of the Indian sacrifice

All the lifted hands and eyes,

All the laughters and the cries
Of Tuloom-

All the kings in feathered pride,
All the people, like a tide,
And the voices of the bride
And the groom!-

But, alas! the prickly pear,
And the owlets of the air,

And the lizards, make a lair
Of Tuloom.

We are tenants on the strand

Of the same mysterious land.

Must the shores that we command
Reassume

Their primeval forest hum,
And the future pilgrim come
Unto monuments as dumb
As Tuloom?

'Tis a secret of the clime,

And a mystery sublime,

Too obscure, in coming time,

To presume;

But the snake amid the grass

Hisses at us as we pass,

And we sigh, Alas! alas!

In Tuloom.

ERASTUS WOLCOTT ELLSWORTH

The Ocean.

LIKENESS of heaven, agent of power,

Man is thy victim, shipwrecks thy dower!
Spices and jewels from valley and sea,
Armies and banners, are buried in thee!

What are the riches of Mexico's mines

To the wealth that far down in thy deep water shines?
The proud navies that cover the conquering west,
Thou fling'st them to death with one heave of thy breast.

From the high hills that visor thy wreck-making shore,
When the bride of the mariner shrieks at thy roar,
When, like lambs in the tempest or mews in the blast,
O'er thy ridge-broken billows the canvas is cast,-

How humbling to one with a heart and a soul,
To look on thy greatness and list to thy roll,
And to think how that heart in cold ashes shall be,
While the voice of eternity rises from thee.

Yes, where are the cities of Thebes and of Tyre?
Swept from the nations like sparks from the fire!
The glory of Athens, the splendor of Rome,
Dissolved, and forever, like dew in thy foam!

But thou art almighty, eternal, sublime,
Unweakened, unwasted, twin brother of Time!
Fleets, tempests, nor nations thy glory can bow;
As the stars first beheld thee, still chainless art thou.

But hold !—when thy surges no longer shall roll,
And that firmament's length is drawn back like a scroll,
Then, then shall the spirit that sighs by thee now,
Be more mighty, more lasting, more chainless than thou.
JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA.

Spinning-wheel Song.

MELLOW the moonlight to shine is beginning;
Close by the window young Eileen is spinning ;
Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting,
Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting,—
Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping."

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"'T is the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping." "Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing."

"'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying."

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;

Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

"What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?"

"Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under." "What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on, And singing all wrong that old song of The Coolun '?" There's a form at the casement- the form of her truelove

And he whispers, with face bent, "I'm waiting for you, love;

Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly, We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot 's stirring; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers, Steals up from her seat-longs to go, and yet lingers; A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother,

Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other.
Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round;

Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound;
Noiseless and light to the lattice above her

The maid steps,—then leaps to the arms of her lover.
Slower, and slower, and slower the wheel swings;
Lower, and lower, and lower the reel rings.

Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving,
Thro' the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving.
JOHN FRANCIS WALLER.

The Burial of Beranger.

The poet Béranger is dead The expenses of his funeral will be charged to the Imperial civil list.-Despatch of July 17, 1857.

Non mes amis, au spectacle des ombres

Je ne veux point une loge d'honneur.-Béranger.

BURY Béranger! Well for you

Could you bury the spirit of Béranger too!
Bury the bard if you will, and rejoice ;
But you bury the body, and not the voice.
Bury the prophet and garnish his tomb;
The prophecy still remains for doom,
And many a prophecy since proved true
Has that prophet spoken for such as you.

Bury the body of Béranger

Bury the printer's boy you may ;

But the spirit no death can ever destroy
That made a bard of that printer's boy.
A clerk at twelve hundred francs per ann.

Were a very easily buried man :

But the spirit that gave up that little all

For freedom, is free of the funeral.