The very day, however, after seeing Beatrice, I obtained a passage in a brig, which had been bound to another port, but whose destination the owners had changed to Newport, almost on the eve of sailing. I instantly made arrangements for embarking in her, having already disposed of our prize, and invested the money in a manner which I knew would allow it to be distributed among the crew of the Fire-Fly at the earliest opportunity. My parting with Col. Moultrie was like parting from a father. He gave me his blessing; I carried my kit on board; and before forty-eight hours I was once more at sea. * * * * * THE DREAM OF THE DELAWARE. “Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy.” On Alligewi’s[1] mountain height An Indian hunter lay reclining, Gazing upon the sunset light In all its loveliest grace declining. Onward the chase he had since dawn Pursued, with swift-winged step, o’er lawn, And pine-clad steep, and winding dell, And deep ravine, and covert nook Wherein the red-deer loves to dwell, And silent cove, and brawling brook; Yet not till twilight’s mists descending, Had dimmed the wooded vales below, Did he, his homeward pathway wending, Droop ’neath his spoil, with footsteps slow. Then, as he breathless paused, and faint, The shout of joy that pealed on high As broke that landscape on his eye, Imaginings alone can paint. Down on the granite brow, his prey, In all its antlered glory lay. His plumage flowed above the spoil— His quiver, and the slackened bow, Companions of his ceaseless toil, Lay careless at its side below. Oh! who might gaze, and not grow brighter, More pure, more holy, and serene; Who might not feel existence lighter Beneath the power of such a scene? Marking the blush of light ascending From where the sun had set afar, Tinting each fleecy cloud, and blending With the pale azure; while each star Came smiling forth ’mid roseate hue, And deepened into brighter lustre As Night, with shadowy fingers threw Her dusky mantle round each cluster. Purple, and floods of gold, were streaming Around the sunset’s crimson way, And all the impassioned west was gleaming With the rich flush of dying day. Far, far below the wandering sight, Seen through the gath’ring gloom of night, A mighty river rushing on, Seemed dwindled to a fairy’s zone. No bark upon its wave was seen, Or if ’twas there, it glided by As viewless forms, that once have been, Will flit, half-seen, before the eye.