The Song of the Mariner.

HE home of my heart is afar on the sea,

THE

Where wildly the winds whistle music to me; Where, free as the waves on old Neptune's domain, The cares of the world never fever my brain.

Away with the laurels and wreaths of renown;
The king on his throne feels the weight of a crown,
And statesmen that steer the grand vessel of state,
Are tossed full of fears on the billows of fate.

The coxcomb of airs, and the titled buffoon,

May relish the joys of the gilded saloon;

The court and the camp may ring loudly with glee;
But the Mariner's life is the life for me.

Fairs, soirées, and balls are but Fashion's gay marts,
Where folly and pride sell and barter their hearts;
But nothing with rapture my feelings can fire,
Like my bark fully rigged in canvas attire.

Secure in my craft, let the tempest prevail,

And screams of the sea-bird be heard in the gale; Though waves o'er her bow in wild fury may break, My bosom is calm as a mountain-girt lake.

Careering at will and yet leaving no track,

I oft dream of friends that would welcome me back;
The compass that steers me wherever I roam,
May lead me once more to my dear native home.

When life's voyage is o'er, O then let me sleep,
Unmourned and unwept, in the fathomless deep,
Far down in some cave undisturbed and unseen,
Where no plummet can reach, nor mortal has been.

The Homeward Trip.

URRAH! for a trip on the home-bound ship,

That bears the flag of the stripes and stars! She is manned by a brave and gallant crew,

And strong are her oaken beams and spars.

Come, ye mighty men of the sword and pen,
Ye statesmen too that are bought and sold,
On the dead-head list ye will find your names,
For the owners spurn to take your gold.

Come, share of the wine that is old and fine,
And laugh at crime and the broken laws;
Toast the grasping power and the purse-proud line,
And drink to the press-enslaving cause.

Come, your birthright sell, for it suits you well,
And merrily join the dead-head's song:

It will cost you naught but a silent tongue,
With blinded eyes to a flagrant wrong.

で

Oh ye sons of toil, that dig deep the soil,
If homeward bound on the ocean blue;
Near the grunting swine and where vermin swarm,
There are reeking pens reserved for you.

Never long for food to fire up your blood,

Oh! ye sun-bronzed freemen brave and true;
And know ye not 'tis an axiom old,

That labor pays for the favored few?

With your hard-earned sum, from the mountains come,
Ye hardy miners with hearts of oak;

Forget ye are men in the image of God,

And bend your heads to the galling yoke.

Hurrah! for a trip on the home-bound ship,

Where men crawl around like spectres gaunt;
Bring all your gold from the glittering hills,
And let manly pride shake hands with want.

If it cost their lives, bring your tender wives,
Your daughters too with a spotless name;
They shall huddled sleep in allotted stalls,
Where blushing virtue must wink at shame.

Ye frail and weary, in styes so dreary,

If nauseous fumes ye may not choose,

Seek for health and strength on the cold damp deck,

Where fall the drenching rains and dews.

What have you to fear should grim death appear?
When life is filed, and all cold and stark,
Plump down ye will go in a canvas shroud,
The prize and prey of some hungry shark.

Hurrah! for a trip on the home-bound ship,
That bears to the East rich golden bars!
A load hurrah! for her human freight,—

One louder still for the Stripes and Stars?