High the eddying mists are whirled Through the storms. O'er Swilly's rocks they soar, Down, down, with thundering roar, The exulting demons pour. The Saldanah floats no more O'er the deep! The dreadful hest is past!— All is silent as the grave; One shriek was first and last Scarce a death sob drunk the blast, As sunk her towering mast Beneath the wave. 'Britannia rules the waves'- Scars the sands with countless graves Album. AN APOLOGUE. BY T. GASPY, ESQ. Twas eight o'clock, and near the fire My ruddy little boy was seated; And with the titles of a sire, My ears expected to be greeted. But vain the thought! By sleep oppressed, No father there the child descried; His head reclined upon his breast, Or nodding, rolled from side to side. 'Let this young rogue be sent to bed,'- With tearful eye and aching heart; Still for delay, though oft denied, He pleaded;-wildly craved the boon;— Though past his usual hour, he cried At being sent to bed so soon! If stern to him, his grief I shared, (Unmoved who sees his offspring weep ?) Of soothing him I half despaired, When all his cares were lost in sleep. 'Alas poor infant!' I exclaimed, The follies and the fears of man. When doomed to slumber with the dead.' And more I thought-when up the stairs His playthings carefully he kept. When nature claims their forfeit breath, "Tis morn, and see my smiling boy EPIGRAM, FROM THE GREEK. ON marble tombs let no rich essence flow, THE SHIP. HER mighty sails the breezes swell, Is waved by many a snowy hand; In her was many a mother's joy, The lonely heart's unceasing prayer; When on her wide and trackless path Vain guesses all!-Her destiny Is dark-she ne'er was heard of more. The moon hath twelve times changed her form, From glowing orb to crescent wan; Mid skies of calm, and scowl of storm, Since from her port that ship hath gone; But ocean keeps its secret well; And though we know that all is o'er, No eye hath seen-no tongue can tell Her fate-she ne'er was heard of more! Oh! were her tale of sorrow known, "Twere something to the broken-heart, By which her doom we may explore; And ne'er was seen nor heard of more. Constable's Edinburgh Magazine. LOVE. IN FIVE SONNETS. I. THERE is an hour, when all our past pursuits, II. We met in secret,-in the depth of night, When there was none to watch us, not an eye, Save the lone dweller of the silent sky, To gaze upon our love and pure delight! When the white moon hath robed her in its beam, |