What tempest ever left the Heaven
Without a blue spot there?

My native isle! my native isle !
In sunnier climes I've strayed,
But better love thy pebbled beach
And lonely forest glade,
Where low winds stir with fragrant breath
The purple violet's head,

And the star-grass in the early Spring
Peeps from the sere leaf's bed.

I would no more of strife and tears
Might on thee ever meet,
But when against the tide of years
This heart hath ceased to beat,
Where the green weeping-willows bend
I fain would go to rest,

Where waters chant, and winds may sweep
Above my peaceful breast.

Mary Gardiner Horsford.

Shrewsbury, N. J.

A WRECK IN SHREWSBURY INLET.

THE Liverpool packet-ship North America, wrecked in Shrewsbury Inlet about 1842, remained many years in sight. Some of her timbers were rediscovered in 1875 or 1876.

T

HE ocean sands

are round her keel;
The ocean surge is rolling past;
The sea-bird's wing will whirl and wheel
In circles round her broken mast;

There is no mortal hand to scare
The crow and sea-gull from her deck;
No spirit, but the sailor's prayer,
Keeps watch above the noble wreck.

Is she not desolate? old ship,
Left to the surges' wild career, -
No more her noble prow to dip
In the wide waters, blue and clear?
No more to bear the snowy sail
Home from old England's far-off shores;
No more to breast the northern gale,
With strong men on her oaken floors?

Is there no struggle with the storm?
No struggle, that the noble steed
Heaves when, with life-blood still so warm,
He falls in fight, his last to bleed?
Fights not the old ship wind and tide,
As in old days, when tempests came
And the rough waves that swept her side
Shook not her iron strength of frame ?
So fights she not? Ah, gallantly!
And slow each plank is rent away
As if each atom scorned to be

The first-won trophy of decay.
The sea-bird on her broken mast,
The frayed rope swinging from her prow,
She waits her doom of wave and blast,
Content to perish, ne'er to bow!

Henry Morford.

Sodus Bay, N. Y.

SODUS BAY.

BLESS thee, native shore!

I Thy woodlands gay, and waters sparkling clear!

'Tis like a dream once more
The music of thy thousand waves to hear,
As, murmuring up the sand,
With kisses bright they lave the sloping land.

The gorgeous sun looks down,
Bathing thee gladly in his noontide ray;
And o'er thy headlands brown
With loving light the tints of evening play.
Thy whispering breezes fear

To break the calm so softly hallowed here.

Here, in her green domain,

The stamp of Nature's sovereignty is found;
With scarce disputed reign
She dwells in all the solitude around.
And here she loves to wear

The regal garb that suits a queen so fair.

Full oft my heart hath yearned

For thy sweet shades and vales of sunny rest;

Even as the swan returned,
Stoops to repose upon thy azure breast,
I greet each welcome spot
Forsaken long, but ne'er, ah, ne'er forgot!

'T was here that memory grew,

'T was here that childhood's hopes and cares were

left;

Its early freshness, too,

Ere droops the soul, of her best joys bereft.

Where are they? - o'er the track

Of cold years, I would call the wanderers back!

They must be with thee still!

Thou art unchanged,

as bright the sunbeams play:

From not a tree or hill

Hath time one hue of beauty snatched away.

Unchanged alike should be

The blessed things so late resigned to thee.

Give back, O smiling deep,

The heart's fair sunshine, and the dreams of youth

That in thy bosom sleep,

Life's April innocence, and trustful truth!
The tones that breathed of yore
In thy lone murmurs, once again restore!

Where have they vanished all?

Only the heedless winds in answer sigh;
Still rushing at thy call,

With reckless sweep the streamlet flashes by!

And idle as the air,

Or fleeting stream, my soul's insatiate prayer.

Home of sweet thoughts, farewel!! Where'er through changeful life my lot may be,

A deep and hallowed spell
Is on thy waters and thy woods for me,
Though vainly fancy craves

Its childhood with the music of thy waves.

Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right

Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall,

You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball. Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers

blow,

Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.

Nothing more, did I say? Stay one moment; you've heard

Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the Word Down at Springfield? What, no? Come - that's bad,

why he had

All the Jerseys aflame! And they gave him the name