the sunshine sails over the sea,
From many a distant clime comes she,
Freighted with treasure, see how she flies
Cheerily over the foam.
Hearts are all happy, cheeks are all bright,
The long-absent land appears in sight;
Little they dream that the beautiful prize
Will be wrecked in sight of home!

The storm breaks above them, the thunders roll,
The ship gets aground on the hidden shoal,
And the turbulent waters dash over the barque,
And cries from the doomed ship come.
Till nothing is left the tale to tell,
But the angry roar of the surging swell;
So the grand old vessel goes down in the dark--
Wrecked in sight of home.

And thus as we wander through life's rugged way,
Fighting its battles as best we may,
Seeking in fancy a far-distant spot
To rest when we've ceased to roam:
And just as the haven of comfort appears,
Our hopes are all turned into sadness and tears,
We droop near the threshold--ne'er enter the cot--
Wrecked in sight of home.

SONNET.

I could not love thee more, if life depended
On one more link being fixed to Affection's chain;
Nor cease to love thee--save my passion ended
With life; for love and life were blanks if twain!
I could not love thee less; the flame, full-statured
Leaps from the soul, and knows no infancy;
But like the sun--majestic, golden-featured,
Soars like a heav'n of beauty from life's sea.
I would not love thee for thy radiant tresses,
Rich budding mouth, and eyes twin-born of Light.
No: Charms less fadeful thy dear heart possesses--
Gems that will flash through life's noontide and night.
But simple words fall short of what I'll prove:
Accept them but as lispings of my love.

SEBASTOPOL IS WON.

1855.

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED.

Dance on! ye vaulting joy-bells, shout
In spirit-gladdening notes,
Whilst mimic thunders bellow out
From cannons' brazen throats:
"Tyrant! awake ye, tremblingly;
The advent has begun:
Hark! to the mighty jubilant cry--
"Sebastopol is won!"
Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands,
Shout, patriots, everyone!
A burst of joy let rend the sky:
Sebastopol is won!

No dream of brilliant conquest 'twas,
Nor selfish hope of gain,
That sent the blood mad-rushing through
And through each Briton's vein;