And snowy crest, and blue mountain-side,
And the rippling waters' silver tide,
Are bathed alike in one golden haze,

One dazzling flood of morning rays.

But the shores draw nearer on every side,
And now, on a full and flowing tide,

We dash through the pass, 'twixt the sentry rock
And the strange low barrier, which tempest's shock

And the wild waves' rough incessant play
Serve but to strengthen day by day;

Which wilful, wayward old Ocean forms

Against himself and his own wild storms;
For though wind and waters may roar outside,
Within we float on a rippling tide;

While above, bright gardens and lawns are seen,
O'erhanging the cliff with a fringe of green,
The cliff at whose very feet we glide,

So close, that the passing vessel's side
Might almost touch it; and many a one,
From lawn or window, looks curiously down
On the stranger ship gliding swiftly by.
And now at the busy wharf we lie,
And bustle, and noise, and confusion tell
We must bid our vessel a long farewell.

Bright little Nelson, we look, at length,
On thy quiet hills, that, in quiet strength,
Stand round, as to guard the little town,

That, at their feet, nestles snugly down;

On thy many smiling valleys between,

Winding up through the hills like a thread of green;
On many a white bridge, where glistening streams
Catch the eye in sudden silvery gleams,

As they wind about o'er the sunny plain.
Bright little Nelson, methinks again

I see thee as then. I love thee well ;
Each breezy height, each ferny dell,

Are linked with memories that cannot die,
Of happy hours in days gone by;

Of friends, whose kind eyes' welcoming light
Greeted the strangers that August night,
And, through six glad weeks' rapid flight,
Still made each bright scene seem more bright;
Friends, whose names are linked for evermore
With thoughts of thee and thy peaceful shore.

TO A FRIEND.

FRIEND of my youth, if e'er, in years to come,
Thy thoughts upon life's path are backward cast,
Oh, may the memory of one loving heart

Be a bright link to chain thee to the past.

Oh, mayst thou ne'er forget the early friend,
Whose fondest, truest love was all thine own ;
Who linked thy name with all of purest, best ;
In whose young heart thine image reigned alone.

And doubt not, though, perchance, in distant lands,
Far, far from thee her path in life may lie,
Though ne'er again her hand may clasp thine own,
With silent love, as in these days gone by.

Though she no more may look on that dear face, So linked with brightest memories of the past, Doubt not, the heart that loved so fondly once,

Will never cease to love while life shall last.

Doubt not, where'er thy lot in life be cast,

Whate'er thy portion be while here below, One heart will never cease to feel with thee, Joy in thy joy, and sorrow in thy woe.

And if, perchance, that heart have ceased to beat,

If Death, ere then, have claimed her for his own, Doubt not, her spirit hovers round thee still,

Still watches over thee, beloved one ;

Still lingers by thy side when evening's hour, With its calm loveliness and heavenly peace, Steals o'er the world with gentle, soothing power, Seeming to bid all care and sorrow cease.

And, dearest, in the stillness of that hour,

Which I, so oftentimes, have shared with thee, Oh, let but one fond thought be backward cast, And in that evening hour, oh, think of me.

May Heaven's best blessings on thy path descend,
And when, each year, this day shall come again,
May each one find thee happier than the last,
And add another link to joy's bright chain.

And, dearest, if in those far distant years,
Love, hope, and joy, thy happy portion be,
Still let one fond thought to the past be given,
And in thine hour of joy,—oh, think of me.

REST.

"I WANT no Paradise, but rest."
True poet thou, who well didst know
The workings of the human breast,
The inward yearnings of its woe;

For he whose weary heart's opprest
With this world's strife and wild unrest,
Wishes not, asks not to be blest,

Prays but for rest.

Not wild delight or rapturous bliss;
Such joy may be for angels meet;
His yearning spirit asks not this;

To him, he feels, is naught as sweet
As rest-mere rest from cankering care,
From all the turmoil, strife, and glare
Of this wild world, his only prayer,
"Give me but rest."