Of sunny spots, where Love Unfurled his purple wings, And filled the spirit and the grove With glorious offerings! * * * * * A SEA SCENE. BY ROBERT MORRIS. The world is hushed and still, save where the sea Against the rock-bound shore, in monster glee Rushes and roars, and far along the coast, In solemn thunders o’er the loved and lost A constant requiem pours. Above—beyond— No glimmering light is seen! No cheerful sound Steals from the distance. Not a lonely star Gleams from the dim, mysterious depths afar, To win the eye, and, like a spirit chart, To chase the sadness from the sea-boy’s heart. His craft is small and frail—the waves are high— And fresh and chill the wild breeze whistles by! On, madly, blindly, rushes his slight sail, An arrow winged before the maddened gale. His heart is stout and firm; his messmates true, Will, at his call, their hopeless toil renew! But hark! that peal! Old ocean reels and rings, While wilder still, the poor craft bends and springs; And see yon flash—like lava from the sky Poured rashly out by some dread hand on High, And dealing death to those unfit to die! Again—again! And mingling with the sea The frail thing sinks and mounts. Eternity Now yawns at every plunge, and each strong wave Seems hurrying on to some cold ocean grave! Now lost to view—now soaring with the swell— Ah! who the thoughts of that pale crew may tell! How radiant, Home, must seem thy beauties now! How far thy low roof from that vessel’s prow! How angel-like fond features, sunny eyes, Rise o’er the waves in memory’s paradise! Sweet gentle words are heard amid the storm, And hands are clasped, whose blood flows fast and warm. The future breaks upon the mental sight, And Hope’s eternal watch-fire gives it light! The soul again is nerved—the storm rolls on— Morn breaks, and with it comes the welcome sun, And though, as yet, no land salutes the eye, Some tropic bird comes wheeling gaily by; The air seems sweeter, and the ocean’s foam Looks fresher, brighter, and reminds of home! Oh! who may paint the rapture of that hour— The peril past, the breeze, with fresh’ning power, Filling the out-spread canvass! Who may tell The wild emotions that each bosom swell, As the glad morrow dawns upon the soul; And feeling’s fountain bursts beyond control— As welcome voices greet, or lip to lip, In speechless joy, the heart’s companionship— Is mutely told—or, as in some fair face A gentler, deeper, thought of love we trace, And mark with joy the chosen one’s embrace! * * * * * THE SYRIAN LETTERS. WRITTEN FROM DAMASCUS, BY SERVILIUS PRISCUS OF CONSTANTINOPLE, TO HIS KINSMAN, CORNELIUS DRUSUS, RESIDING AT ATHENS, AND BUT NOW TRANSLATED.