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My seat was the strand of the southern shore,

The salt wave bathed my feet: I loved to list to the ocean's roar,

In its fitful, slow retreat.

And many a veering sail was there,

Impelled by the south-wind's force; And changeful e'en as the waves that bare,

Was the vessel's troubled course.

Now white and full the sails were spread,

And shone in the bright sun-beam; A moment--all was dark and dead, And gone was the partial gleam.

Miss C. Fry.

THE STORM.

The anchor heaved, the favouring breezes blew-
The canvass opened, and along she flew
Light dashed the wave from off her dewy side-
Gay streamed her pennons o’er the waters wide.

THERE is something in the contemplation of the variableness of every thing we are conversant with on earth, more especially the diversified but shadowy forms of Happiness, that presents a striking contrast to the hope, always so fallacious, that this world is a Paradise, intended only for the abode of Gaiety and Pleasure. Alas! to those over whom youth is smiling, whose board is crowned with plenty, and in whose horizon health is blushing in all the freshness of juvenile delight-to these, life may be fraught with much to captivate, and much to deceive; nor is it to be greatly wondered at, if they form an erroneous estimate of the scenes amidst which they dwell. But, let them step aside for a moment from the thoughtless round of amusement which so irresistibly attracts them, and in which their years glide so uniformly along, like planets ever centering towards the radiant orb from which they derive light and joy, but holding uninterruptedly their onward course :-let them enter into the habitations of penury and disease :-let them visit the melancholy retreats where Sorrow hides herself from the giddy crowd, who might gaze on her, indeed, with affected compassion, but, like the Priest and Levite in the parable, look on her griefs with cold unsympathizing curiosity, and then pass by on the other side: in a word, let them become familiar with the realities of life, and leave the ideal world in which their moments steal so deliriously, if we may be pardoned the expression, and so unprofitably away,--and they will soon learn

that 'man, born of woman, is of few days and full of trouble :' that he is sent into his present sphere of action, not as if he were to reside here for ever, and lull himself into forgetfulness of the trials that are his birthright, enjoying an unclouded Elysium in its · bowers of bliss ;-but rather as one, wherein innumerable anxieties and temptations await him--as one, where disappointment and vexation lurk under every flower that smiles along his path-as one, in which, though he may for a season seem to tread only on enchanted ground-reclining amidst shades of pleasantness, soothed by the voice of quiet waters, and hushed to sweetest slumbers by etherëal sounds-many a sigh will be involuntarily elicited from his bosom,-many a pang will harrow up his feelings, and many a weight oppress, even to anguish, his over-burthened heart !

The clouds had that gloomy murky appearance, as I wandered one evening on the banks of the lake of Geneva, which indicates that winds have blown fiercely through heaven. Though it was the middle of summer, the air was chill. Heavy rains had lately fallen, and the earth still retained much of the moisture it had imbibed. It was consequently wet under foot, and I had preferred, for my evening ramble, the dry hard causeway which winds along the banks of that beautiful piece of water, 'to the sweet lonely path-ways where I more frequently sauntered. The grass of the meadows was still unmown, and as the pasture-grounds were covered with a rich verdant mantle, they were less inviting on that occasion, and I had therefore chosen the route that conducts along the windings of the lake, and often brings you so close to it, that the least ripple is distinctly heard upon the clean pebbly shore.

My mind, and I recollect it well, for I am relating no idle tale of fiction, was in a frame of peculiar mournfulness. I had that morning heard from my friends, far, far distant from me, and the letter bad been the bearer of melancholy tidings. Some of my

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