Friends of the stage, who hail it as the shrine Where music, painting, poetry entwine Their kindred garlands, whence their blended power Refines, exalts, ennobles hour by hour The spirit of the land, and, like the wind, Unseen but felt, bears on the bark of mind; To you the hour that consecrates this dome, Will call up dreams of prouder hours to come, When some creating poet, born your own, May waken here the drama's loftiest tone, Through after years to echo loud and long, A Shakspeare of the West, a star of song, Bright'ning your own blue skies with living fire, All times to gladden and all tongues inspire, Far as beneath the heaven by sea-winds fann'd, Floats the free banner of your native land. THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT COASTER. _Written while sailing in an open boat on the Hudson River, between Stony Point and the Highlands, on seeing the wreck of an old sloop, June, 1821._ "And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in every thing." SHAKSPEARE. Her side is in the water, Her keel is in the sand, And her bowsprit rests on the low gray rock That bounds the sea and land. Her deck is without a mast, And sand and shells are there, And the teeth of decay are gnawing her planks, In the sun and the sultry air. No more on the river's bosom, When sky and wave are calm, And the clouds are in summer quietness, And the cool night-breath is balm, Will she glide in the swan-like stillness Of the moon in the blue above, A messenger from other lands, A beacon to hope and love. No more, in the midnight tempest, Will she mock the mounting sea, Strong in her oaken timbers, And her white sail's bravery. She hath borne, in days departed, Warm hearts upon her deck; Those hearts, like her, are mouldering now, The victims, and the wreck Of time, whose touch erases Each vestige of all we love; The wanderers, home returning, Who gazed that deck above, And they who stood to welcome Their loved ones on that shore, Are gone, and the place that knew them Shall know them never more. * * * * * * * * * * It was a night of terror, In the autumn equinox, When that gallant vessel found a grave Upon the Peekskill rocks. Captain, mate, cook, and seamen (They were in all but three), Were saved by swimming fast and well, And their gallows-destiny. But two, a youth and maiden, Were left to brave the storm, With unpronounceable Dutch names, And hearts with true love warm.