Quickly the Latin books are thrown aside, away With careless minds, intent on various play: Huzza! a long and sunny holiday! Now when the first wild transport of delight Subsides, they congregate with faces bright, Loud clamorous tongues, and speaking sparkling eyes; And sports and games, how innocent! devise. Ah! how unlike the headlong passions strong, Which hurry man's maturer heart along; Passions, in evil pleasures seeking vent, Intenser but how much less innocent! - Alas! to these, ere few brief years be flown, But hence, O hence, anticipations vain! and be young again, THE CONVICT SHIP. BY I. K. HERVEY. MORN on the waters! and purple and bright, Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail, And her pennant streams onward, like hope, in the gale! The winds come around her in murmur and song, Night on the waves! and the moon is on high, Hung, like a gem on the brow of the sky; Treading its depths, in the power of her might, And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light! Look to the waters! asleep on their breast, Seems not the ship like an island of rest? Bright and alone on the shadowy main, Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain; Who- as he watches her silently gliding, Remembers that wave after wave is dividing Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever, Hearts that are parted and broken for ever! Or deems that he watches afloat on the wave, The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave! 'T is thus with our life, while it passes along, Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song! Gaily we glide, in the gaze of the world, With streamers afloat, and with canvass unfurled : All gladness and glory to wandering eyes, Yet chartered by sorrow, and freighted with sighs! Fading and false is the aspect it wears, As the smiles we put on - - just to cover our tears: And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know, Like heart-broken exiles lie burning below; While the vessel drives on to that desolate shore Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er. HOHENLINDEN. BY THOMAS CAMPBELL. ON Linden, when the sun was low, But Linden saw another sight, By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Then shook the hills with thunder riven, But redder yet that light shall glow |