THE LAST REQUEST.

BY BENJAMIN B. THATCHER.

BURY me by the ocean's side

Oh! give me a grave on the verge of the deep, Where the noble tide

When the sea-gales blow, my marble may sweepAnd the glistering turf

Shall burst o'er the surf,

And bathe my cold bosom in death as I sleep!

Bury me by the sea

That the vesper at eve-fall may ring o'er my grave,
Like the hymn of the bee,

Or the hum of the shell, in the silent wave!
Or an anthem roar

Shall be rolled on the shore

By the storm, like a mighty march of the brave !

Bury me by the deep

Where a living footstep never may tread ;

And come not to weep

Oh! wake not with sorrow the dream of the dead, But leave me the dirge

Of the breaking surge,

And the silent tears of the sea on my head!

And grave no Parian praise;
Gather no bloom for the heartless tomb,-
And burn no holy blaze

To flatter the awe of its solemn gloom!
For the holier light

Of the star-eyed night,

And the violet morning, my rest will illume :—

And honors more dear

Than of sorrow and love, shall be strown on my clay
By the young green year,

With its fragrant dews and crimson array. -
Oh! leave me to sleep

On the verge of the deep,

Till the skies and the seas shall have passed away!

SONG OF THE WINTRY WIND.

BY FREDERIC MELLEN.*

-Away!

We have outstaid the hour-mount we our clouds!

MANFRED.

'ADIEU! adieu!' thus the storm spirit sang, 'Adieu to the southern sky;'

And the wintry wind that round him rang,

Caught up the unearthly minstrelsy.
Adieu! adieu! to its flood's bright gleams,
Its waving woodlands, its thousand streams.'

'Off! off!' said the spirit; like the whirlwind's rush His snow-wreathed car was gone;

And their cold white breath came down the night, As his startled steeds sped on.

Yet the night wind's dirge o'er the changing year, Fell slowly and sadly upon the ear.

'Twas the song of woe,-of that wintry wind,
As the laughing streams ran by,
And lingered around the budding trees,
Once clothed in its own chaste livery.
Its tones were sad, as it sunk its wing,
And this was its simple offering:

Farewell! to the sun-bright South;

For the Summer is hastening on;

And the Spring flowers bright in their fragrant youth, Mourn not for the Winter gone.

'But when days have passed, and I come again, Their forms shall have died away;

And mine must it be their cold shroud to twine, From the snow curls that o'er them lay.

'Farewell to the sun-bright South;

To its midnight dance and its song; For each heart is out for the Summer breeze, As it sports in its mirth along.

'And the student hath lifted his pallid brow,
To list to its soothing strain ;

But oft shall they sigh in the parching heat,
For the wintry wind again.

SONG OF THE WINTRY WIND.

103

Farewell to the sun-bright South;

To the chime of its deep, deep sea ; To its leaping streams, its solemn woods, For they all have a voice for me.

'Farewell! to its cheerful, its ancient halls,
Where oft in the days of old,

When the waning embers burnt low and dim,
And dark strange stories were told;

'My hollow moans at the casement bars,
Stole in like a sound of dread;
And the startled ear in its lonely sigh,
Heard the voice of the sheeted dead.

But the days are passed-the hearth is dim,
And the evening tale is done ;

'Mid the green-wood now is the choral hymn,
As it smiles in the setting sun.

'Farewell to the land of the South ;
My pathway is far o'er the deep,
Where the boom of the rolling surge is heard,
And the bones of the shipwrecked sleep.