Adown the gulf, adown the gulf
She speeds her fearful way;

The storm is dark around her track-
No star doth lend its ray.

The billows dash with threat'ning roar,
As hounds that scent their prey,
Yet swiftly, wildly speeds she o'er
The flashing waves away!

But now no more adown the gulf
The lonely bark is driven,
Before the veering storm she reels-
Her only sail is riven.

Across the gulf, across the gulf!
Amid the deepening storm,
From wave to wave she scuds away
Like some sea-monster's form.

Away! she may not linger there,
For on her gleaming path,

Like wolves that chase the flying deer,

The billows foam in wrath.

But now away beyond the gulf

She finds a calmer sea,

And clear and bright comes forth the sun, From tempest-clouds set free.

'Tis thus the spirit, by the strife

Of Death relentless driven,

Finds, far beyond the storms of Life,
A calm repose in Heaven.

HANNAH E. BRADBURY.

MISS BRADBURY, known throughout New England as H. E. B., the authoress of so many charming little stories and poems which bear these initials, is the daughter of Benjamin B. Bradbury, of Bangor. She was born in Chesterville, but has resided in Bangor for some years.

THE COVERED BRIDGE.

The grave is but a covered bridge,

Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

ONLY a covered bridge! yet from its brink

My spirit turns in fear;

Trembling and shuddering from its gloom I shrink,
The portals seem so drear.

A covered bridge, leading from light to light,
The darkness brief, they say;

Yet who shall guide me through the starless night
That darkly shrouds the way?

Each pain is softened now by mother's hand,
And pillowed on her breast

I catch bright glimpses of the spirit-land,
Where wearied souls may rest.

My Father's hand now smoothes each ruffled wave

Of life's unquiet sea;

Oh, gladly would I tread the darksome grave,
Leaning, my Sire, on thee.

But I must walk this covered bridge ALONE,

Passing from light to light

Without the kindly greeting of a friendly tone
Breaking the hush of night.

No! not alone. our blessed Christ hath pass'd
Through death's dark gloom,

A holy radiance hath his presence cast
Around the unwelcome tomb.

And when the light of earth grows dim and pale,
I'll banish every fear;

For though the kindness of my friends shall fail,
God's angels will be near.

God's angels will be near, through the brief night
Which shadows for an hour

The bridge o'er which I pass, from light to light,
Where death hath no more power.

SARAH WARREN SPAULDING.

THIS young lady was born in the town of Norridgewock, on the sixteenth day of August, 1834. She now resides at Bangor.

THE STORM AND THE RAINBOW.

DID the angels hang it out, mother,

The glorious bow I see?

Have the spirits such a banner

As now is shown to me?

It was reached down from Heaven,
Dear mother, I cannot doubt,

So tell your own dear Willie

Did the angels hang it out?

The rain fell down in torrents

The clouds were black as night — But soon the armies of the storm Were beat and put to flight. They were vanquished by the angels, And when they saw their rout, There came the flag of Victory — Did the angels hang it out?

I have heard of wars in heaven -
Now I know that they have fought-
I saw the flashing of their spears,
And their glances - did I not?
Their chariots rolled thro' heaven,
And I heard the demons shout-
And then I saw the flag of peace ·
Did the angels hang it out?

'Tis the bow of promise, mother — I know by God 'twas given, Emblem of peace and harmony

Between mankind and heaven!

And when the storm-cloud passed away

With the last thunder shout,

And this bright bow appeared in heaven

Did the angels hang it out?

CHARLES P. ILSLEY.

THIS gentleman is a native of Portland, where he was born in 1806. He was for several years connected with the Portland Transcript,' and at the present time is associated with E. P. Weston as assistant editor of the Eclectic.'

'OH, THIS IS NOT MY HOME!'

All things seem strange to me
I miss the rocky shore,

Where broke so sullenly

The waves with deaf'ning roar:

The sands that shone like gold
Beneath the blazing sun,
O'er which the waters roll'd,

Soft chanting as they run:

And oh, the glorious sight!
Ships moving to and fro,

Like birds upon their flight,

So silently they go!