BY CATHERINE H. WATERMAN.
They tell me I am volatile,
An adept in my art,
Because I've many spots to fill
Within my loving heart.
They tell me I am fond of change,
And, like th' inconstant bee.
From sweet to sweet, I love to range,
All fetterless and free.
But would they look into my breast,
Where young fond thoughts have met,
See how their deep impressions rest,
They'd say I'm no Coquette.
My heart from childhood's early days
Hath in its uncheck'd flow,
Scatter'd the sunlight of its rays.
In a perpetual glow.
With gushing tenderness it clung
To all around, above;
To every bud and flower that sprung.
For it was made to love.
And if with an unsparing hand.
It gathers flow'rets yet,
And loves alike the mingled band.
Am I a cold Coquette?
There are deep tones within my heart.
They've slept the sleep of years;
Why should I wake them, but to start
The unavailing tears.
They are, as harps, tee flnely strung
For stranger hands to sound;
And careless fingers o'er them flung
Would probe an unheal'd wound.
If joy's realities are o'er,
Bright fancies glad me yet;
My bark of hope was wreck'd near shore—
Am I a cold Coquette?
But if to love the sunny earth,
The bright and glorious skies.
The summer buds that spring to birth.
In rainbow tinted dyes;
And joy in all that care beguiles.
And from the many claim
Affection's fond and cheering smiles.
And friendship's sacred flame;
To hold them to my heart, and still
Its sad but vain regret.
Is to be weak and volatile—
I am a cold Coquette.
..
THE FIRST VIEW OF THE OCEAN
Henry Melton never recovered. The chafing of j
the iron ring produced a sore of a more serious na- ]
tore than the broken bone. The badge was removed
with the aid of a blacksmith, and every possible at¬
tention paid to the wonnd, but the appearance of gan¬
grene rendered amputation necessary, an operation
that Melton resolutely refused to undergo. I visited
him one evening, and found by the glassy fixedness of
his eyes, and the indescribable taint that is ever to be
found in the chamber of a departing spirit, that his
hours were numbered. He beckoned me to him:
his breath was noisome, and his thin palms were
clammy with the dampness of death.
"It will soon be over now," said he. "I care not
for the anguish of my wounds—the pale cheeks and
wrinkled brow of my poor wife, my father's death,
the disgrace of our once honoured name—are worse
than daggers in my heart. I do not wish to live, for
I cannot bear to look upon the misery I have caused."
His weakness rapidly increased. He took the hand
of his wife, who was anxiously but silently attending
to her dying husband—" Emily, I have given you
cause to curse my very name—forget it—let my me¬
mory rot in the grave; cherish not a recollection of
Beats there a heart which hath not felt its core
Ache with a wild delight, when first the roar
Of ocean's spirit met the startled ear?
Beats there a heart so languid and so drear.
That hath not felt the lightning of the blood
Flash vivid joy, when first the rolling flood
Met the charm'd eye, with all its restless strife,
At once the wonder and the type of life!
Thou trackless, dark, and fathomless, and wide.
Eternal world of waters! ceaseless tide
Of power magnificent! unmeasur'd space
Where storm and tempest claim their dwelling place.
Thy depths are limitless! thy billows' sound
Is nature's giant voice—thy gulph profound
Her shrine of mystery, wherein she keeps
Her hidden treasures.—In thy cavern'd deeps
Is stored the wealth of nations; and thy waves
Have been—are now—and will be dreary graves
For countless millions! Oh, thou art alone
The costliest footstool of God's awful throne—
The mighty tablet upon which we see
The hand of power—the sign of Deity!
