THE MIRAGE.

A FRAGMENT.

FAR o'er Sahara's waste the pilgrim's eye
Measures his labour's dread futurity;

But far or near, to soothe his anguish keen,
No palmy foliage specks the hazy scene,—
When all at once his filmy eyes behold

A lucid lake across th' horizon rolled.

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"Sweet hope!" he cries; begone, despairing

thought!

How kind the toil this matchless hour that brought !

There, from the basin of some crystal pool,

These parching lips shall sip the liquid cool;

My sandals loosed, these wayworn feet shall lave
Their burning wounds beneath the glassy wave.

H

Ye'll soon be there, my trembling steps," he cries; "Yet, oh! how distance mocks these aching eyes! How want deceives! What giddy languor dim Sickens my soul, and makes my senses swim.”

Borne onward still by false excitement wild, Reels on his tortured way the desert child; With gaze transfixed, that swims but wavers not, Turned on his all of hope-that watery spot:Unequal combat! but at length contentIts cruel rage to taunt his misery spent

The misty lake, unwilling yet to stay

Its fearful work accomplished, fades away;

His childhood's dread, the false mirage he knows,

Thinks on the unreached shrine, forgets his woes,— In one long-holden, unattended breath

Pours forth his soul, and shuts his eyes in death!

THE STORMY PETREL.

THE tempest blast, careering wild,
Whirls high the scattered spray;

Yet mark yon Ocean's storm-nursed child
Above the billow play :-

So sports o'er Time's tempestuous sea,

When torn by winds of care,

Some

young affection fond and free

That has been nurtured there.

THE SECRET OF CONTENT.

THERE are in this our earthly sphere
Some lowly paths to wisdom dear,
Whose tuneful shades and arbours rare

For more unpleasing scenes prepare,
Which hush the ruder passion's strife
Ere heightened by the ills of life,
And bid the heart its love extend
To those whose steps may never tend
On toil's rough road, to peace or joy,
Or rest, so absent from alloy.

And there is many a lowly cot

Where envy's voice has sounded not,

Or fierce ambition's brand severe

Lit all most sacred and most dear;

To raise before a selfish world

A flame, whose last mad column, hurled High as the rapid meteor's flame,

Sinks into nothingness or shame,

The ember-smoke of earthly fame. How dear is such a cottage home! There never hard misfortunes come, Save such as chasten hopes too wild For Nature's loved but humble child; And teach th' untutored rustic's mind

How sorrow's self to him is kind.

In some secluded hamlet, seen

Deep in the woodland valley green,

The early, wayward flower to tend, The sprig new sprouting timely bend; To fit the growing mind to bear

Harsh storms of trouble and of care;