"And why so madly dost thou dare, Proud Spirit of the sea, To tempt the monarch of the air, With the whirlwind's rage and the lightning's glare? What seekest thou of me?" "I have risen afar from my coral caves, Where the pearls are sparkling bright, To roam o'er the isles I have girt with my waves; And I hurl defiance at thee and thy slaves, And I challenge thee here to the fight!" "Take this in return!" and the thunderbolt rush'd From the midst of a cloud of fire; The tempest forth from his nostrils gush'd, And the island forest his footsteps crush'd, In the burning of his ire. Now fierce o'er the waters mad hurricanes boom, And the depths of the ocean uprend; Now the waves lash the skies with their torrents of foam, And whirlwinds and billows in furious gloom, Meet, mingle, and fiercely contend. But the monarch of ocean spurns his thrall, And evades his fierce controul;-- Away in his ice-clad crystal hall, He still reigns absolute monarch of all That surrounds his frozen pole. The day breaks forth, and the storm is past,-- Again are the elements free; But many a vessel is still sinking fast, And many a mariner rests at last, In the bosom of the sea! SONG--ROSALIE CLARE. BY C. F. HOFFMAN. Who owns not she's peerless--who calls her not fair-- Who questions the beauty of Rosalie Clare? Let him saddle his courser and spur to the field, And though coated in proof, he must perish or yield; For no gallant can splinter--no charger can dare The lance that is couched for young Rosalie Clare. When goblets are flowing, and wit at the board Sparkles high, while the blood of the red grape is poured, And fond wishes for fair ones around offered up From each lip that is wet with the dew of the cup,-- What name on the brimmer floats oftener there, Or is whispered more warmly, than Rosalie Clare? They may talk of the land of the olive and vine-- Of the maids of the Ebro, the Arno, or Rhine;-- Of the Houris that gladden the East with their smiles, Where the sea's studded over with green summer isles; But what flower of far away clime can compare With the blossom of ours--bright Rosalie Clare? Who owns not she's peerless--who calls her not fair? Let him meet but the glances of Rosalie Clare! Let him list to her voice--let him gaze on her form-- And if, hearing and seeing, his soul do not warm, Let him go breathe it out in some less happy air Than that which is blessed by sweet Rosalie Clare. TO A PACKET SHIP. BY ROSWELL PARK. Speed, gallant bark! to thy home o'er the wave! The clouds gather dark, and the mad billows rave;-- The tempest blows o'er thee, and scatters the spray That lies in thy wake, as thou wingest thy way.