POINT PRIM.

Far off from the smoke, and the city's glare, To the breath of the clover lea; From the din and dust to the healthful air, And the song of a tranquil sea. Which falls on the ear like a holy psalm From a world unkenned of strife; As the eve glides past in a blissful calm, Like the close of a well-spent life. Yet sighings of sorrow are heard in the foam Which white-wreathes thy border, Point Prim; As she telleth their fate, who left thee, to roam, The eyes of the mother wax dim. Of him who ne'er quitted dread danger's post Till engulfed in the treacherous wave; Or of him who fevered on sultry coast, And was launched in the sailor's grave. No thrilling oration shall vaunt their praise, No flowers bloom over their breast; The surges shall wail through the long, long days, Yet disturb not their quiet rest. No kindred shall bind them in narrow bed, No marble earth's sympathy crave; Sea-shells will pillow the wave-shrouded head, And winds sigh the dirge of her brave. No more by the wood path, through falling leaves, Will she hasten their steps to greet; But yet will she gather her golden sheaves, When time and eternity meet. No more will they weather the tempest's strain, With a lowering sky o'erhead;— One haven will shelter her loved again When the sea giveth up its dead.