_From the New York Daily Advertiser._ _The Sailor Boy._ Dark flew the scud along the wave, And echoing thunders rend the sky; All hands aloft! to meet the storm, At midnight was the boatswain's cry. On deck flew every gallant tar, But one--bereft of ev'ry joy; Within a hammock's narrow bound, Lay stretch'd this hapless SAILOR BOY. Once, when the Boatswain pip'd all hands, The first was he, of all the crew, On deck to spring--to trim the sail-- To steer--to reef--to furl or clue. Now fell disease had seiz'd a form Which nature cast in finest mould; The midwatch bell now smote his heart, His last, his dying knell it toll'd. "O God!" he cried, and gasp'd for breath, "Ere yet my soul shall cleave the skies, "Are there no parents--brethren--near, "To close, in death, my weary eyes? "All hands aloft to brave the storm, "I hear the wintry tempest roar;" He rais'd his head to view the scene, And backward fell, to rise no more. The morning sun in splendour rose. The gale was hush'd and still'd the wave; The Sea-boy, far from all his friends, Was plung'd into a wat'ry grave. But He, who guards the Sea-boy's head, He, who can save or can destroy, Snatch'd up to Heav'n the purest soul That e'er adorn'd a SAILOR BOY. _Salem Gazette,_ Oct. 29, 1805. * * * * * EARLY RISING. WIVES, _awake! unveil your eyes; Sluggards, no more yawning; See the Delphick god arise, Bright Apollo dawning._ _Husbands, rouse at love's alarms, Drowsy slumbers scorning; Rovers, quit your favourite charms, Up! behold, 'tis morning._ _Virgins fair, have at your hearts; Hymen's torch is flaming; Cupid whets his pointed darts, And look! the rogue is aiming._ _Fair the bud of beauty blows, Mellow sweets are palling; Crown us with the virgin rose, And so prevent its falling._ _See the charms that nature yields;_ Why _sleep away your duty? Arise! the fragrance of the fields Is friendly to your beauty._ _Lads, for shame! abed till now! Forsake them, and be wiser; There's health and pleasure, you'll allow, In being an early riser._ _Bound with ivy, bound with vines, Youth serenely passes; Bacchus round our temples twines, And sparkles in our glasses._ _No longer drown the mind in sleep; But breathe the vernal air! Our hours may thus improvement reap, And who has any t' spare_? _Salem Mercury,_ May 17, 1788. * * * * * _From the New Monthly Magazine._ =On seeing a Tomb adorned with Angels weeping.=