for beacon-light:
My gallant bark, away!

LOVE.

What fond, delicious ecstasy does early love impart!
Resistless, as a spring-tide sea, it flows into the heart,
Pervading with its living wave the bosom's inmost core,
That thrills with many a gentle hope it never felt before.

And o'er the stripling's glowing heart, extending far and wide,
Through passion's troubled realm does Love with angel sway preside;
And smiles are shed that cast a light o'er many a future year,
And whispers soft are conjured up of lips that are not near.

With promises of fairyland this daylight world teems,
And sleep comes with forgetfulness or fraught with lovely dreams;
And there is magic in the touch, and music in the sigh,
And, far more eloquent than speech, a language in the eye.

And hope the constant bosom cheers with prospects ever new;
But if the favour'd one prove false, oh! who can then be true?
Our fond illusions disappear, like slumber's shadowy train,
And we ne'er recall those vanish'd hopes, nor feel that love again.

EDWARD POLIN.

A writer of prose and poetry, Edward Polin was born at Paisley on the
29th December 1816. He originally followed the business of a
pattern-setter in his native town. Fond of literary pursuits, he
extensively contributed to the local journals. He subsequently became
sub-editor of the _Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle_. In 1843 he accepted the
editorship of the _Newcastle Courant_--a situation which, proving
unsuitable, he retained only a few months. Resolved to adventure on the
literary field of London, he sailed from Newcastle in August 1843. The
vessel being at anchor off Yarmouth, he obtained leave from the captain
to bathe. He had left the vessel only a few yards, when his hands were
observed to fall into the water. One of the seamen promptly descended
with a rope, and he was speedily raised upon the deck. Every effort to
restore animation however proved fruitless. This closing event of a
hopeful career took place on the 22d August 1843, when the poet had
attained only his 27th year. His remains were interred in St George's
churchyard, Cripplegate, London.

A young man of no inconsiderable genius, Polin afforded indication of
speedily attaining a literary reputation. By those to whom he was
intimately known his premature death was deeply lamented. Many of his
MS. compositions are in the hands of friends, who ma