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middle of the stream, in one of its wide bends, and the first impulse was to run the vessel on shore, without a moment's delay. “Shove her in to shore !' 'Shove her in to shore !' was shouted on all sides; but the strokes of the engine died away suddenly, and it was thought that the water, which was pouring in, had reached the fires, or that some injury had disabled the machinery. No doubt remained that the case was a desperate one, and many a strong man there would have thrown himself into the river, and sought immediate safety by swimming to shore; but the intense darkness, the danger of the unknown currents ! Oh, it was like plunging into the grave !

There was but one chance left the small boat : it was lashed up at the stern, and thither rushed the panic-stricken crowd. wild impulse had been anticipated ; to explain in what manner, I must go back in my story a few minutes, or rather seconds — a few brief seconds of agony and suspense.

When the vessel struck, Mrs. Hartwell was among the first who felt the fatal shock. She had been quieting little Anna, who was ill and fretful, and was awake, therefore, and had her full senses about her at the moment. From the violence of the concussion, and the crash and confusion that immediately followed, she felt sure that something dreadful had happened ; and fear came upon her, but with it came the spirit and the power to rise above it. She darted from the state-room with the child in her arms, and gave her in charge of the chambermaid, whom she discovered by the light of the lamp in the ladies' cabin. The woman was wailing and wringing her hands; and after silencing her with earnest gestures, Mrs. Hartwell leading the way, dragged her after her through the door, which she locked on the outside ; then turning to the chambermaid, she spoke quietly and distinctly, though her voice trembled, and when she laid her hand on the woman's arm, it was as cold as marble.

• Mrs. Tompkins,' she said, ' we must secure the boat, before any of the people take possession of it. It may be the means of saving all our lives. Do you stand close by me, and take care of my little girl; do not scream, nor cry, to frighten her, and shall be among the very first to go on shore.'

Theirs was an upper cabin, and within a few feet of the outer door hung the boat with its lashings. Unfastening the rope, so that a yard or two hung loose, she wound it tightly round her arm, and clasping it with her delicate hand, resolved to hold it, if possible, against all odds, until her husband came to take the command. This was done before the passengers became aware of the extremity of their danger; but the captain saw at a glance that all was lost, but the lives of those committed to his care; and to preserve them, by every effort in his power, was now his only object. On his first mate he could entirely depend; and on him he called to go with him aft, and take command of the small boat. Handing him a pistol, he desired him to use it, if necessary, to intimidate any who offered violence to his orders. More than a hundred lives,' he continued, . depend upon our exertions : in God's name, let us endeavor to save every one!'

The cook, too, had been ordered to run aft with a torch; and as Hartwell and his mate reached the stern, the light appeared casting a fitful glare over the water, and glancing faintly against the woods

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on shore, to reach which was now the sole desire of every breast. It shone over the waters, and threw an uncertain light round the sinking vessel, and over the groups clustering on her deck, and crowding the guards, and revealed to Captain Hartwell's eyes a sight that almost unmanned him.

His wife was literally defending the boat against two or three cowardly ruffians, from the deck, who, by alternate threats and persuasions, endeavored to make her quit her hold. She had run out in her night-dress, and her hair, which had escaped from her head-gear, was waving in long tresses round her shoulders; and as she dared her assailants to use violence, one small white foot was advanced with an air of firm resolve, and she looked as one might fancy the Lady of Douglas did, when she desperately barred the door with her arm against the assassins of her king, as though she would rather it were severed from her body, than give up her trust.

'My brave girl! replied the captain, keep the command a moment longer, till I heave these villains overboard !'

I can settle them, Sir; jist leave them to me, if you please, Sir, said Big Steven, as he disposed of his torch in a place of safety; and seizing one with the gripe of a Hercules, he dexterously dealt another a blow on the temple, which the sufferer ever after believed to have come from the heavy knob of an oaken stick, or the butt-end of a pistol.

Need it be stated how the captain, pistol in hand, held the panicstricken passengers in awe, while the boat, under command of the mate, was seen, crowded with ladies, shooting toward the shore ; how it returned, and returned again, until all were saved ?

'I shall never remember that affair, without mortification,' said Mrs. Hartwell to her husband, as they were afterward talking the matter over. With some surprise, he inquired why.

To think,' said she, holding down her head, while her eyes filled with tears, “to think how I stood, bare-foot and exposed in my nightclothes, before all those people!'

• My dear girl !' cried her husband, catching her in his arms, 'I never saw you look so beautiful !

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When we behold this tiny creature sail,

Upborne and flowing on the buoyant tiden
Expand the lucid sheet to catch the gale,

And pump the waters from its leaky side;
Or, curious, see it dip its filmy oar,

And spread its pearly shell across the wave,
Desert its hull, a shipwreck on the shore,

Or the deep caverns of the ocean brave;
These various instincts wonderful appear:

Yet far more strange, when in this fact we find,
That hence was taught the mariner to steer,

To stretch the canvass, and invoke the wind :
The INDUSTRY thou deign'st to man impart,
May he improve, and use with thankful heart.

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THE

OF

BEAUTY: OR, A LOVER'S JOURNAL.

LOVE.

SPENSER.

WORTH

CANTO

I. FIRST

"Oh who can tell what cause had that fair maid
To use him so, that loved her so well?
Or who with blame can justly her upbraid
For loving not? - for who can love compel."

MINE is no tale of venture bold,
Of reckless quest of fame or gold;
Of passion's dark, erratic course,
Through guilt and ruin to remorse;
Of brunt defied, of bloody war,
Or hazards cleared in travel far,
On slippery steeps, or treacherous seas,
Where summers scorch, or winters freeze.
Oh! ye that seek for such, forbear!
My theme will never charm your ear :
But if there be who pleasure find
To trace through peril's path the mind,
Wherein no personal pain nor strife
Gilds while it hazards limb and life;
If such there be, whose feelings move
At tale of simple, real love,
Ungraced with danger, wreck, or wo,
Save such as love must ever know,
The love of our ignoble time,
Unmet, or seldom met, in rhyme;
To such, at least, my quiet strain
Not wholly will appeal in vain.
Yet though no steel my form hath marred,
Think not my heart hath 'scaped un-

scarred:
Tho' with no wounds my flesh- hath bled,
I've spilt the blood that eyes can shed:
Yes! pangs have cut my soul with grief
So keen, that gashes were relief :
And racks have strained my spirit-frame,
To which the snap of joints were tame;
And battle strise itself were nought,
Beside the inner fight I've fought.
Though other than my native sod
My feet, untravelled, ne'er have trod,
Yet have I roamed through every change
Of clime the wandering heart can range:
From boyhood's home of bloomy bowers,
(The haunt of sports and dreamy hours,

By sweet rose-buttons all adorned,
Youth's tender blossoms yet unthorned,
Whose prickles, if their down were such,
Bent pointless lo my gentlest touch,)
To manhood's rugged heights I roved,
And many a pang and peril proved.
Oh! home of peace! now mine no more,
For love's dim-seen and purple shore
Did I forsake thy bowers of ease,
And brave the might of passion's seas;
And shattered in my earliest gale,
Have Moated, rent in helm, and sail,
O'er billows tossed, o'er billows stilled,
Where'er the wayward winds have willed:
Now sent south-wandering to the sun,
Where tempests rush, and thunders stun,
Where tropic skies, even when at rest,
Frei into feverish flame the breast;
Now by the currents of disdain
Whirled backward to the icy main,
To pine long nights of chilling wo,
More deep than polar winters know.
Bloom of the earth! my pride, my bane,
My spring of rapture, and of pain;
Bright BEAUTY!- child of starry birth,
The grace, the gem, the flower of earth:
The damask livery of Heaven,
To earth for choice apparel given,
From its own stores of rosy light:
A sample sent to tempt our sight,
That brimming fount of light to gain,
Whose drops are all it deigns to rain;
But ah! whose drops so gem the air,
And shed such rain-bow tintings there,
It seems as if some angel- hand,
To mark it with the owner's brand,
Had in that fount its pencil dipped,
And every work of Nature tipped ;
Which, at the master-touch, illumes,
And all the barren landscape blooms.

As morning clouds of chilly gray,
One dull disordered mass display,
Till the awakening beams aspire,
And crest each wavy ridge with fire,
So gloomed the hueless world in night,
Till Beauty rose, and all was briglat!

Now roses blush, and violets' eyes,
And seas reflect the glance of skies ,
And now that frolic pencil streaks
With quaintest tints the tulip's cheeks;
Rewards the lily's modest plight,
With bridal dress of virgin white,
But robes the pretty pimpernel
In the gay trappings of a belle.
Now jewels bloom in secret worth,
Like blossoms of the inner earth :
Now painted birds are pouring round
The beauty and the wealth of sound;
Now sea-shells glance with quivering ray,
Too rare to seize, too fleet to stay,
And hues out-dazzling all the rest,
Are dashed profusely on the west,
While rain-bows seem to palettes changed,
Whereon the motley tints are ranged.
But soft the moon that pencil tipped,
As though, in liquid radiance dipped,
A likeness of the sun it drew,
But flattered him with pearlier hue;
Which, haply spilling, runs astray,
And stains with light the milky way;
While stars besprinkle all the air,
Like spatterings of that pencil there.

But queen of flowers, of gems, of skies,
Now Woman opes her peerless eyes:
Last work the heavenly artist planned,
The rarest of that master-hand;
For there is pencilled in her face
Of all his works the bue and grace:
All brightest, purest things of earth,
Are mingled to compose her worth;
All lights that spot the evening sky,
Are clustered in her starry eye;
All sunset hues the west that streak,
Blend in the blush that lights her cheek ;
All notes of sweetest song-birds' choice,
Swell the rich chord of womau's voice :
All flowers that mortal sense beguile,
Twine in the wreath of woman's smile.

But Heaven, to other creatures free,
Denied the glorious gift to me;
And formed me as for others' scoff,
Or foil to set their beauty off';
With features coarse, and stature low,
Ungainly gait, and accent slow;
But undeformed; for, humbled then,
My pride had kept me back from men;
And Pity then had stayed the sneer,
And soothed my burnings with her tear.
Such was my wavering, trying state,
Too poor for love, 100 good for hate;
With too much ugliness to please,
Nor yet enough my hopes to freeze;
Not limp, and yet uncouthly move,
Not loathsome, yet no thing to love.
Now drawn to seek, now driven to shun,
As shame or passion urged me on.

All this with nerves so finely strung,
That every touch of Beauty wrung;
And all the ravished cords would thrill,
When swept by their fair master's skill :
Nay, scarce a scent-breeze stirred the air,
But woke some trembling murmur there.
So much in love with Beauty's face,
I sought her glance in every place ;
My busy eyes no spot let rest,
Exhausting Nature's round, in quest;
No tints the sunset cloud could dye,
But I was ever watching by :
No bow could span the stormy air,
But I stood, dumb with homage, near :
No lonely moon could walk the sky,
But I must keep her company;
Nor could she swim the glassy tide,
But still I followed by her side.
No flowers, whose garland wreathes the

year,
Could at their stated hour appear,
But far through wood or marsh I'd toil,
To greet and cull the brilliant spoil.
I loved to climb the breezy height,
And mark the valley’s ’minished sight:
I loved on summer green to lie,
And scan the overhanging sky,
While all the fleet of those blue seas
Spread their white canvass to the breeze;
Some making and some furling sail,
Some rent and fluttering in the gale,
Far-scudding for the horizon dim,
Or sinking ere they reached the brim.

But clouds grown mad I loved the best,
When rushing frightful from the wests
With gestures wild, with eyes of fire,
Deep-set in frowns -- with tones of ire,
Denouncing vengeance deep or worse,
With frantic laughter in their curse;
Till, spent with squandered strength,

they weep,
And powerless Nature drops to sleep:
Soft-breathing in her blest relief

, [grief : Tear-drenched, yet sweet with passing So like the placid, dewy rest (breast

: That soothes th' exhausted maniac's While rays the shattered gloom that

streak,
Would like returning reason break,
And dash the rain-bow tints on high,
Like sudden gleams of memory.

If soulless forms thus swayed my will,
What wonder woman's glance should

thrill ?
Since lesser beams my bosom won,
How must it bow to Beauty's sun ?
Oh light! by whose celestial rays
My heart has counted all its days,
Whence my young budding feelings drew
The quickening warmth by which they

grew;
And ah! to which my soul has given
The worship only due to Heaven;
How have I revelled in thy rays,
And basked voluptuous in the blaze!

Too long enjoying noon so sweet,
Till crazed and blistered by the heat:
Yet when un welcome clouds there came,
Intruding on my realm of flame,
O'ershadowing all the dazzling bloom
With chilly mist and leaden gloom,
How have I wished that sun renewed,
Burn, blind, or madden as it would !

Dear Woman! none that ever knelt,
Like me have followed, worshipped, felt:
How have I watched thine eyes, to see
Some tender favor drop to me!
And baffled oft, suill watched in vain,
And ceasing, ached, and watched again.
Of all thy precious glances, none
Would light on me, for me alone:
For if one bird-like stranger fell,
It perched to visit, not to dwell;
Then flew the rugged spot, as found
For guest so fair ungenial ground.
Of all the smiles thy lips have shed,
Not one was wreathed 10 crown my

head,
Save such as jealous eyes could find,
With lurking ihorns of scorn entwined.
No blush I ever thrilled to see,
Was lighted up by love for me ;
No tender vow was mine to hear,
Nor mine the sweet confessing tear.
Doomed loving, yet unloved, to roam,
With houseless heart that knew no home,
With every feeling there that burned,
Cast down at woman's feet, and spurned :
And all for this corroding blight,
That stamps me charmless in her sight;
All, all ior this - no more !-- no more!
I feel the pang that wrung before;
'Tis past! and I no more bewail
But bear my fate : now to my tale.

It was my lot for months to dwell 'Neath the same roof with one so fair It matters not whom, when, or where,

'Tis what I felt, that I would tell :
Let this suffice, nor seek beyond,
That she was fair, and I was fond;
And that the scene is laid beside
Passaic's blue and silver tide.
'T was at the crisis of my growth,
When boyhood opens into youth;
When the unfolding heart-bud blows,
And sheds its incense like the rose :
Sweet hour of feeling's joyous birth,

Ere curst from boybood's Eden driven, Ere thirst for tempting fruits of earth

Unhoused me of my early heaven!

1.

How swam her dewy eyes of blue !

How lowly drooped the silken lash! Her pearly cheek no blushes knew,

Or only such as sea-shells flash.

IV.

How light her slender form, and weak !

How glittering soft her sunny hair ! How, when her lips awoke to speak,

The startled dimples fluttered there!

The tears lay near her tender eyes,
The banks were weak, the current

strong:
She wept whene'er my wrath would rise,

But most when I confessed my wrong.

Even now her form from misty years
Comes up all swimming through my

tears!
Hour upon hour of bliss we passed :
Dear hours ! too precious long to last.
She loved me, but alas! it proved
She only as a sister loved ;
While I was ravaged by the fire
Of young and passionate desire.
Enough; my journal now must tell
All that my busy heart befel :
The rapture of my feelings new,
And ah! the bitter anguish too!

wear

THE JOURNAL.

May 9th.
A Pot of flowers beside me stands,
All plucked by Anna's sweet commands:
I've scoured the woods and marshy

waste,
For heart like hers, so pure and chaste,
More loves the wildlings of the fields,
Than all the show the garden yields :
And from the spoil she bids me twine,
(Sad task for awkward hands like mine)
The sweetest wreath, which she will
To-night, her birth-night, round her hair.
Come violets first ! - your eyes are

bright,
But not so blue as Anna's, quite :
Come wind-flowers! blossoms of the

sloe!
How white ! — her teeth are whiter,

though:
Now mountain pinks! but ah! her lips
The ruby of your bloom eclipse:
Now butter-cupg, spring-beauties, flagg,
And columbines, from cloven crags,
Dark arums striped, and whortle-bells,
Blend all with ferns from swampy dells ;
'Tis done! - yet haunts me all the while
The sweeter garland of her smile.

0! she was gentle as the moon,

As mild, as soft, as sweet, as calm; And mellowed was her brightest noon,

As even's stilly hour of balm.

II.

No frown, no flash, her eye could stain,

For when a cloud began to form, It broke in tears of gentlest rain,

Ere it could gather to a storm.

0! happy day! - earth, sky is fair,
And fragrance floats along the air ;
For all the bloomy orchards glow,
Like a light fall of rosy snow,

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