THY bark, a coffin; helmsman, death-- A narrow shroud, the sail; Thy freight corruption; and the breath Of parting life the gale: This makes all sense and sight disclose Contemptible and mean; But Faith, like ocean, riches knows, Exhaustless, but unseen. And, as that ocean wild, the moon, With silver sceptre guides, And, tranquil on her distant throne, Controls the raging tides; So Faith, from her celestial height, Consoles the troubled breast, And calm, from consciousness of might, Rebellion awes to rest. C. STANZAS. STILL falls the boatman's oar, Faint comes the ev'ning bell, As from off the dusky shore The cool night-breezes swell: How sweet at such an hour, The yellow sands to rove; The spirit wrapt within the power Of dreaming love. How sweet, when youth has gone, And manhood's eye looks dim, To waken up in Memory's tone, Love's own vesper hymn; To bring back every note, In early hours we knew, And, as old voices round us float, Believe them true. Thus shall the buried joys, The dreams, the hopes, the fears, The all that cruel time destroys, Come back to bless our years: Thus shall the affections come, Our raptures to restore; Thus shall the sad heart bloom In youth once more. G. B. SINGLETON. THE FOSTER-CHILD. A DOMESTIC TALE OF ENGLAND, FOUNDED ON FACT. 'TEN years to-day! Mercy on us! Time does fly indeed! It seems but yesterday, and here she sat, her beautiful fair face all reddened by the heat, as in her childish romps she puffed with might and main the fire in that very grate. Dear heart!--how sweet a child it was, surely! Well, David, say what folks will, I'm convinced there was a fate about it.' Before I relate how far David cöincided in this opinion of his 'gude wife,' I will mention to whom and what she alluded, and how I had an opportunity of declaring a similar conviction.