Port Gibson Herald

POETRY

GEMS OF AMERICAN POETRY.

Our first selection for this week, "The Dead Mariner," is by George D. Prentice, Esq., the second, "Footsteps of Angels," by Professor Longfellow, the sweetest poet of our land.
THE DEAD MARINER.

Sleep on, sleep on! above thy corse
The winds their Sabbath keep,
The waves are round thee, and thy breast
Heaves with the heaving deep.

O'er thee mild eve her beauty flings,
And there the white gull lifts her wings,
And the blue halcyon loves to lave
Her plumage in the deep blue wave.

Sleep on; no willow o'er thee bends
With melancholy air,
No violet springs, nor dewy rose
Its soul of love lays bare,
But there the sea-flower, bright and young,
Is sweetly o'er thy slumbers flung,
And, like a weeping mourner fair,
The pale flag hangs its tresses there.

Sleep on, sleep on; the glittering depths
Of ocean's coral caves
Are thy bright urn-thy requiem
The music of its waves;
The purple gems forever burn
In fadeless beauty round thy urn,
And, pure and deep as infant love,
The blue sea rolls its waves above.

Sleep on, sleep on; the fearful wrath
Of mingling cloud and deep
May leave its wild and stormy track
Above thy place of sleep;
But, when the wave has sunk to rest,
As now, 'twill murmur o'er thy breast,
And the bright victims of the sea
Perchance will make their home with thee.

Sleep on; thy corse is far away,
But love bewails thee yet;
For thee the heart-wrung sigh is breathed,
And lovely eyes are wet:
And she, thy young and beauteous bride,
Her thoughts are hovering by thy side,
As oft she turns to view, with tears,
The Eden of departed years.
FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

When the hours of day are number'd,
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul that slumber'd
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlor-wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The belovèd ones, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherish'd
Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perish'd,
Weary of the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,—
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven!

With a slow and noiseless footstep,
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me,
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.

Utter'd not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depress'd and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died!