And nevermore shall battled pines Their solemn triumph sound for me, Nor morning fringe the mountain-lines, Nor sunset flush the hoary sea; But Night and Winter fill the sky, And load with frost the shivering air, Till every gust that hurries by Chimes wilder with my own despair. The leaden twilight, cold and long, Is slowly settling o'er the wave; No wandering blast awakes a song In naked boughs above thy grave. The frozen air is still and dark; The numb earth lies in icy rest; And all is dead, save this one spark Of burning grief, within my breast. Life's darkened orb shall wheel no more To Love's rejoicing summer back: My spirit walks a wintry shore, With not a star to light its track. Speed swifter, Night! thy gloom and frost Are free to spoil and ravage here; This last wild requiem for the lost I pour in thy unheeding ear! DEATH. BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. Why mourn the perished glories of the past? Why wrong with murmurs Death's paternal care? Sire of immortal Beauty, from his vast Embrace with Infinite Life, spring all things fair And good and wonderful: Ye are not cast, Like wailing orphans, on the desert bare, To cry and perish. Life comes everywhere With Mother-love, and strong Death garners fast His bounty for her board; for all which live His tireless hands the harvest sow and reap, He feeds alone those lily breasts which give New strength to all on Life's white arms that leap; Fear not, sweet babes, in his thick mantle furled, Now lulled asleep, to wake in a new splendor-world. THE CRUISE OF THE RAKER. A TALE OF THE WAR OF 1812-15. BY HENRY A. CLARK. (_Concluded from page 196._) CHAPTER VII. _The Raker in a Calm._