BY W. MAXWELL.
Oh strike the Harp.
Oh! strike the harp, while yet there lies
In Music's breath the power to please;
And if the tears should fill mine eyes,
They can but give my bosom ease.
But hush the notes of Love and Mirth,
Too welcome to my heart before;
For now those airs that breathe of earth
Can charm my pensive soul no more.
Yes, I have loved the world too well,
And roved in Pleasure's train too long;
And I have felt her sweetest spell
In Beauty's smile, and Passion's song.
But now my soul would break her chains,
While yet perhaps the grace is given;
Then strike the Harp in Zion's strains,
And she shall soar at once to heaven.
A TOUR TO THE ISTHMUS:
Filled in from the Pencillings of an English Artist,
BY A YANKEE DAUBER.
Painting is welcome;—
The painting is almost the natural man;
For since dishonor traffics with man's nature,
He is but outside. These pencilled figures are
Even such as they give out.
Timon of Athens.
I.
Chesapeake Bay. Hampton Roads. Old Point. Rip Raps. The Capes.
Tuesday, May 26, 1835. Hurrah! there she goes! Free and fast,—free and fast! Hurrah! Here am I on the green waters of the Chesapeake,—my craft a little clipper, my companion one of the best fellows in creation; and his sister, a bright-eyed French girl, whose spirits seem to rise with every knot our tight little vessel makes upon the dancing waves. Did you ever see a Baltimore clipper under full way? Then you have seen a fair sight. I never saw any craft get over the waves so fast. Her peculiar build, and her yet more peculiar rig fit her for this, and she takes the wind out of any thing and every thing she essays to compete with. We have left a steamboat behind since we left Baltimore. We are just now entering Hampton Roads, and here we are to anchor. “Old Point Comfort,” is the name given to a fortification on our right, which, in the dense mirk of the night looks like any thing but the abode of comfort. We are riding at anchor upon the surging waves, and beneath dark and heavy clouds piled one above another in voluminous masses, from which the lightning is playing incessantly. It is a most grand and yet most fearful scene. I stand, with Mariette, my little French companion, and, as if spellbound, look into the depths of cloudland, watching for every opening of those yawning chasms disclosed by the perpetual play of the lightning, regardless of the warning of the captains, (for we “serve two masters”) who are foreboding a fearful night. Excitement! what are we not willing to sacrifice for it,—a new scene, something strange,—a fresh feeling! Here are we, tempests threatening us from every point, the wind veering incessantly from every quarter of the heavens, and the chances that we shall be driven ashore increasing with the lapse of every moment, and yet all is so new, and so exciting, that we are really rather amused than fearful. But then, capitaine, if you insist upon it, why, I suppose we must e'en go below!