THE DEATH-BED OF BEAUTY. SHE sleeps in beauty, like the dying rose Or like herself,-she will be dead to-morrow. How still she sleeps! The young and sinless girl! And the faint breath upon her red lips trembles! Waving, almost in death, the raven curl That floats around her; and she most resembles The fall of night upon the ocean foam, Wherefrom the sun-light hath not yet departed; And where the winds are faint. She stealeth home, Unsullied girl! an angel broken-hearted! O, bitter world! that hadst so cold an eye And her heart-strings were frozen here and riven, And now she lies in ruins-look and weep! How lightly leans her cheek upon the pillow! And how the bloom of her fair face doth keep Changed, like a stricken dolphin on the billow. TO THE ICE-MOUNTAIN. GRAVE of waters gone to rest! Wandering on the trackless plain, Sailing mid the angry storm, Ploughing ocean's oozy floor, Piling to the clouds thy form! Is it that thou comest forth? Roamer in the hidden path, 'Neath the green and clouded wave! Trampling in thy reckless wrath, On the lost, but cherish'd brave; Parting love's death-link'd embraceCrushing beauty's skeletonTell us what the hidden race With our mourned lost have done! Floating isle, which in the sun Art an icy coronal; Wend thee to the southern main; Warm skies wait to welcome thee! Mingle with the wave again! THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. WHEN the summer sun was in the west, Its crimson radiance fell, Some on the blue and changeful sea, And some in the prisoner's cell. And then his eye with a smile would beam, And the blood would leave his brain, And the verdure of his soul return, Like sere grass after rain! But when the tempest wreathed and spread A mantle o'er the sun, He gather'd back his woes again, And brooded thereupon; And thus he lived, till Time one day TO A WAVE. LIST! thou child of wind and sea, Wave! now on the golden sands, Thou hast leap'd on high to pilfer? Was telling of a floating prison, Which, when tempests swept along, And the mighty winds were risen, Founder'd in the ocean's grasp. While the brave and fair were dying. Wave! didst mark a white hand clasp In thy folds, as thou wert flying? Hast thou seen the hallow'd rock Where the pride of kings reposes, Crown'd with many a misty lock, Wreathed with sapphire, green, and roses Or with joyous, playful leap, Hast thou been a tribute flinging, Up that bold and jutty steep, Pearls upon the south wind stringing! Faded Wave! a joy to thee, Now thy flight and toil are over! O, may my departure be Calm as thine, thou ocean-rover! When this soul's last pain or mirth On the shore of time is driven, Be its lot like thine on earth. To be lost away in heaven! MICAH P. FLINT. [Born about 1807. Died 1830.] MICAH P. FLINT, a son of the Reverend TIMO- | forests, during intervals of professional studies THY FLINT, the well-known author of "Francis Berrian," was born in Lunenburg, Massachusetts; at an early age accompanied his father to the valley of the Mississippi; studied the law, and was admitted to the bar at Alexandria; and had hopes of a successful professional career, when arrested by the illness which ended in his early death. He published in Boston, in 1826, "The Hunter, and other Poems," which are described in the preface as the productions of a very young man, and results of lonely meditations in the southwestern "The Hunter" is a narrative, in three cantos, of "adventures in the pathless woods." The situations and incidents are poetical, but the work is, upon the whole, feebly executed. "Sorotaphian," an argument for urn-burial, subsequently reprinted with some improvements in "The Western Monthly Magazine," lines "On Passing the Grave of My Sister," and several other poems, illustrated the growth of the author's mind, and justified the sanguine hopes of his father that he would become the pride of his family." 66 ON PASSING THE GRAVE OF MY SISTER. Ox yonder shore, on yonder shore, Now verdant with the depths of shade, There is a little infant laid. And summer's forests o'er her wave; Around the little stranger's grave, In sounds that seems like sorrow's own, She came, and pass'd. Can I forget, How we whose hearts had hailed her birth, Consign'd her to her mother earth! We heap'd the soft mould on her breast; Upon her lonely place of rest. For all unheard, on yonder shore, There is no stone with graven lie, To tell of love and virtue blent In one almost too good to die. But midst the tears of April showers, His germs of fruits, his fairest flowers, Yet yearly is her grave-turf dress'd, AFTER A STORM. THERE was a milder azure spread Whose beauteous arch had risen there Were heard exulting at its birth. A breeze came whispering through the wood |