I could not long remain a subordinate in command. I had become the idol of our lawless crew, and a single blow from my sword laid our captain low in death upon his own deck; and I filled his place, smiling with a fiendish pleasure, as I saw his body thrown into the waves, and the hungry sharks severing the limbs yet throbbing with life. I have no feeling for my kind--yet I was not meant for this. Under happier auspices, I might have been a leader in the ranks of God as I am now in those of Satan; my sword might have been drawn for my native land with the purest and loftiest feelings of patriotism, instead of being turned against her and her children. Even now, in the midst of my crimes and desolation, my heart throbs when I think of the great and good of earth, and I feel that, like them, I might have left a name of boast and pride to mankind; now, I shall perish, unknown and unwept; the annals of my house shall never record that one of its scions led a pirate crew to deeds of bloody cruelty and death. Long since I have buried my name in oblivion--I am dead to my kindred, dead to the world; the caves of ocean are yawning for the body of the pirate-chief, and there will he sleep with the howling ocean and the shrieking storm to sing his requiem and his dirge. [_To be continued._ DREAMS. Yes, there were pleasant voices yesternight, Humming within mine ear a tale of truth, Reminding me of days ere the sad blight Of care had dimmed the brightness of my youth: Yes, they were pleasant voices; but, forsooth, They threw a kind of melancholy charm Around my heart; as if in vengeful ruth, Our very dreams have knowledge of the harm Ourselves do to ourselves, without the least alarm! I love such dreams, for at my couch there stood One who, in other lands, with magic spell, Had taught my untaught heart to love the good, The pure, the holy, which in her did dwell. It was a lovely image, and too well I do remember me the fatal hour, When that bright image--but I may not tell How deep the thraldom, absolute the power-- My very dreams decide it was her only dower. _Sandwich Islands._ What are our dreams? A sort of fancy sketches, Limned on the mind's retina, with a grace More subtle than the wakeful artist catches, And tinted with a more ethereal trace. Our dreams annihilate both time and space, And waft us, with magnetic swiftness, back O'er an oblivious decade to the place Where youth's fond visions clustered o'er our track; Of youth's fond hopes decayed, alas! there is no lack!