And with it comes the driving snow, The helmsman scarce the compass sees, A sound of fear strikes on the ear; It is the awful roar Of dashing breakers, dead ahead, Wear ship! hard up, hard up your helm!' Loudly the captain cries. Slowly her head pays off, and now Now on the other tack close braced, Ahead, to windward and to lee, 'We vow to lead a holy life!' Too late! alas, too late! Their vows and plaints to imaged saints They strike a rock; Oh, God! the shock! Through mast and shroud the tempest loud There lives not one to greet the sun, A winding sheet for sailors meet, The storm is o'er; the rocky shore That still is murmuring hoarse. And thus the Spanish crew were found,* There, in unconsecrated ground, No mourners stood around their graves, THIRTEEN in number. Their graves are still to be seen on one of the Isles of Shoals. These islands lie off the harbor of Portsmouth, (N. H.,) nine miles from the mouth of the Piscataqua. ། LOVE AND LOVE LETTERS. BY DAVID STRONG. THE passion of love, in its effects, curiously blends the serious with the amusing, the tragic with the comic. A faithful transcript of the mind under its influence would at least equal in interest, the movements of an opium eater, or in amusement, the antics produced by nitrous-oxide. This truth occurred to me with singular clearness this morning as I lingered over the contents of my escritoire. There, lay before me all the tokens of a score of 'loves.' And among them (more to my purpose,) were copies of my own letters written in the heat of passion and in the ardor of youth. They have hitherto been sacred-treasures that money could not buy, and for which I would not have thanked any one to tempt me with fame. But time and untruth have robbed them of their sanctity; and the keen sense of the ridiculous they inspired me with this morning, has sealed their fate. With a reservation in favor of those addressed to one lady, they go into the fire. The record of thoughts made over to her has yet an interest for me. She was the last object that lingered on my gaze as I passed out from boyhood's land of dreams; her memory is the dim twilight of my day of sentiment gone by. She is another's now,' but my life is happier in the trust that she still recurs to our acquaintance with undiminished friendship. I the more cling to the hope, and foster the belief, from the falsehood I have met elsewhere. Once shake my faith in her and thereafter my trust in woman will be confined to the limits of my organs of vision. The Indeed the rings, ringlets, ribbands, seals, valentines, billets, mottoes, and every other variety of the peace-disturbing arms of Cupid that lie scattered before me, are so many mute witnesses of the instability of woman's love. The history of the lock of hair that. shades one corner of my paper, is the history of the rest. story of one, is the story of all. Pledges given, and pledges broken. Therefore I do well to take fast hold on the faith of her who, giving no promises, has ever kept to the spirit of our friendship. It is well there is one. But to proceed: It has been said that a man of sense may love like a madman, but never like a fool.' The fact is self-evident; for a man would cease to be considered sensible who, for a considerable length of time, under any circumstances, continued to play the simpleton. Foolish acts however do not necessarily imply a total want of sense. No man conducts wisely at all times; and no man was ever known to do so under the influence of the tender passion. But a man may under its influence do brilliant things. It may be a ridiculous passion, as it has been termed, still it is a passion. In common with ambition, with avarice, with all the other passions, its life is fire; a fire which brightens while it burns. And in its strength lies the ridicule. Its efforts seem absurdly disproportionate to its ends. Not that they are, but that they appear so. Every one knows for himself that there is no holier nor happier state than to love and be loved; that life has nothing like unto it; but he ceases to be himself when he mixes with the world. The communion of hearts, with all its beauty, is not tangible; it is not a thing that the world either sees or worships. Man struggling for fame, or toiling in privation for wealth, are spectacles the world witnesses at least with respect. To be famous is to be worshipped; to be rich is to be powerful. Such ends seem worthy of toil, of care, of restless nights, of any sacrifice. But to waste one healthful moment for love, is something the world, as a world, cannot understand. The sight of a full-grown giant expending all his strength to capture a shadow would not be one-half so ridiculous. If, during his efforts he stumble into a quagmire, the picture is complete.. There was a time, when by its association with deeds of lofty daring and of high renown, love-making was a popular pursuit, or rather it was a pursuit that commanded popular respect. In the days of chivalry love ruled the court, the camp, the grove.' The king and the peasant, the lord and the retainer, were all, each in his way, gallants. No knight appeared without a gage upon his lance; no page without a pledge; no squire without a token. The spirit of love reigned at the gay and costly tournament at home, and sent its influence with the soldier on the long and toilsome journey into Palestine. It was his angel in sickness and in sorrow. It cheered him in the hour of battle; and it was only when he had done his knightly devoir in the service both of GOD and his lady, that he. could lie down composedly to die. Alas! those brilliant times have passed away, and the sentiments they fostered have departed with them! The world no longer bows to the conqueror of hearts. So far from it, that in these, our days, to escape ridicule, a courtship, must be conducted sub rosa. This is but natural. Love has many features provocative of mirth, that can only be subdued by associating it with something that the world reverences. The prominent and most comical of its attributes is blindness. The earnestness with which the lover asserts the existence of mental and physical beauty in his mistress, oftentimes, in the very face of fact, has been considered fit subject for the jest, the cavil and the sneer. Many a poor fellow has witnessed the mirth of his friends, when for his life he could not see what it was about. There is a simile in one of the letters already referred to that may serve to illustrate my meaning. I think it pretty, and written under any other circumstances, might pride myself upon it. But as it is, the pathos is too much. It is this: The future is as dull, and cold, and dark as the grave of an hundred years ago; and yet there comes a gleam of hope like twilight creeping over the tomb-stone. Is it the twilight of the morning or the night?' ; Now I know that the lady to whom it was addressed can read but that she understood, much less appreciated it, is beyond my credulity. I thank my stars that I live to edit myself. I may possibly yet die rich, and, unexplained, it is enough to break any will in Christendom. The verdict of a judicial tribunal, however delicately worded, might be comprised in the words, non compos mentis. This was not so plain to me at the time: but the world knew it, if I did not; and I dare say that the only tears ever elicited on its perusal were the result of mirth; the lady laughing at my sentiment, and the others more maliciously at its application. Can I blame them? Assuredly not; for now when I come to see it in the proper light, I · am forced to laugh too; fortunate perhaps that the order is not reversed. I refer to this case, as an instance of the strangest infatuation, and the most pitiable folly I have ever been short-sighted enough to engage in; but I cannot in fairness expect my readers to feel its humiliation as keenly as I do; and it will be well added that there is no depth of delusion love may not lead into; no contortion of sense it may not induce. Such being the case, lovers frequently present mental attitudes as much more laughable than the physical postures of a harlequin, as the mind is more pliant and capable of subtle disposition than the body. There is no earthly power, (if we except fear and respect,) that can control the risible muscles, and men will laugh when they see any thing to laugh at. So it is very certain that until love is either looked upon as an aberration of mind, which is possible, or becomes entitled to fear or respect in some more complimentary way, which is improbable, the world will continue to be merry at its |