APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN.

101

Beneath thy dark and vengeful flood,

The proudest fleets of yore,

With all their hale and gallant crews
Sunk, to return no more.

And there the beautiful and brave

Rest in thine awful deep,

While o'er their bleached and scattered bones, Thy sullen surges sweep.

Roll on, old ocean, dark and deep!
For thee there is no rest :-
Those giant waves shall never sleep,
That o'er thy billowy breast,
Tramp like the march of conquerors,
Nor cease their choral hymn,

Till earth with fervent heat shall melt,
And lamps of heaven grow dim.

AN EXTRACT,

IN MEMORY OF LEONARD F. APTHORP, A FRIEND

AND CLASSMATE OF THE AUTHOR.

BY ISAAC M'LELLAN, JR,

SOON the pale Scholar learneth that the star
That lured him on, but leadeth to the grave;
And that the images of sombre stain
Are ever with life's tissue bright, inwrought.
And such a one, but yesternight I saw
Placed where Ambition's dream shall vex no more.
He saw the sparkles in life's golden cup,

And fain would deeply of its sweets have quaffed, But never lived to learn the poison of the draught.

Departed friend! thy brethren all have passed
From that still spot which sepulchres thy dust,
To mingle in earth's noisier scenes, to walk
In life's tumultuous, and thronging path.

AN EXTRACT.

103

Yet as the traveller at the close of day

Will pause to view the darkening landscape round
O'er which the Day's long pilgrimage had been,
So we, in later years will love to view

In memory's dream, those scenes we walked with you.

I oft have sat at that still hour, when slow
From her dim hall, the purple Twilight stole,
And shut the shadowy landscape from the view,
To mark the picture thy warm fancy drew
Of coming life, its triumph and its joys.
Alas, fond dreamer, all thy colored hopes
Are buried now beneath the Church-yard Stone,
The crumbling mould is now thy narrow bed,

And the rank church-yard weed waves mournful o'er thy head.

REV. ROBERT WYMAN,

GRADUATE OF THE CLASS OF 1838,

Joined the Ceylon Mission in 1842.

Died on his homeward passage in 1845.

BY THE EDITOR.

Far-far from this bright land

He hasted away,

To tell in the night-land

The breaking of day;

To herald the story

Of Calvary's woe,

The triumph of glory,

The grave's overthrow.

Where soft gales are winging
The aroma's breath,

But sin is yet flinging

The "shadow of death ";

REV. ROBERT WYMAN.

105

Where cool waters bursting

From 'neath the green earth, Still leave the soul thirsting,

To pine in its dearth;

There toiled he to lighten
The midnight of sin,
Until the morn brighten,
And let the day in;

O'er lands dark and dreary,

Christ's banner unfurled,—

The hope of the weary,
The joy of the world.

But mourn ye dark dwellers
On Ceylon's green shore,

From toil with his fellows

He rests evermore.

Down fathoms unnumbered

Beneath the deep sea,

Where thousands have slumbered,

There slumbereth he.

Above the cold billow

No marble may rise, Nor cypress nor willow

May tell where he lies;