,
Where the billows swelling,
Keep such hollow roar--

From that weeping Woman,
Seeking with her cries
Succor superhuman
From the frowning skies--

From the Urchin pining
For his Father's knee--
From the lattice shining--
Drive him out to sea!

Let broad leagues dissever
Him from yonder foam--
Oh, God! to think Man ever
Comes too near his Home!

SONNET.

The world is with me, and its many cares,
Its woes--its wants--the anxious hopes and fears
That wait on all terrestrial affairs--
The shades of former and of future years--
Foreboding fancies, and prophetic tears,
Quelling a spirit that was once elate:--
Heavens! what a wilderness the earth appears,
Where Youth, and Mirth, and Health are out of date!
But no--a laugh of innocence and joy
Resounds, like music of the fairy race,
And gladly turning from the world's annoy
I gaze upon a little radiant face,
And bless, internally, the merry boy
Who "makes a _son-shine_ in a shady-place."

THE ELM TREE.

A DREAM IN THE WOODS.

"And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees."--_As You Like It_.

'Twas in a shady Avenue,
Where lofty Elms abound--
And from a Tree
There came to me
A sad and solemn sound,
That sometimes murmur'd overhead,
And sometimes underground.

Amongst the leaves it seem'd to sigh,
Amid the boughs to moan;
It mutter'd in the stem, and then
The roots took up the tone;
As if beneath the dewy grass
The dead began to groan.

No breeze there was to stir the leaves;
No bolts that tempests launch,
To rend the trunk or rugged bark;
No gale to bend the branch;
No quake of earth to heave the roots,
That stood so stiff and staunch.

No bird was preening up aloft,
To rustle with its wing;
No squirrel, in its sport or fear.
From bough to bough to spring.
The solid bole
Had ne'er a hole
To hide a living thing!

No scooping hollow cell to lodge
A furtive beast or fowl,
The martin, bat,
Or forest cat
That nightly loves to prowl,
Nor ivy nooks so apt to shroud
The moping, snoring owl.

But still the sound was in my ear,
A sad and solemn sound,
That sometimes murmur'd overhead,
And sometimes underground--
'Twas in a shady Avenue
Where lofty Elms abound.

Oh hath the Dryad still a tongue
In this ungenial clime?
Have Sylvan Spirits still a voice
As in the classic prime--
To make the forest voluble,
As in