At the piping of all hands,

When the judgment signal's spread-
When the islands, and the lands,

And the seas give up their dead,
And the south and the north shall come;
When the sinner is betray'd,
And the just man is afraid,
Then Heaven be thy aid,
Poor Tom.

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

WHAT is there sadd'ning in the Autumn leaves? Have they that "green and yellow melancholy" That the sweet poet spake of? Had he seen Our variegated woods, when first the frost Turns into beauty all October's charmsWhen the dread fever quits us-when the storms Of the wild Equinox, with all its wet, Has left the land, as the first deluge left it, With a bright bow of many colours hung Upon the forest tops-he had not sigh'd.

The moon stays longest for the Hunter now: The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe And busy squirrel hoards his winter store: While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along The bright blue sky above him, and that bends Magnificently all the forest's pride,

Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks, "What is there sadd'ning in the Autumn leaves?"

"The dead leaves strow the forest walk,
And wither'd are the pale wild-flowers;
The frost hangs blackening on the stalk,
The dewdrops fall in frozen showers.

Gone are the spring's green sprouting bowers, Gone summer's rich and mantling vines,

And Autumn, with her yellow hours, On hill and plain no longer shines.

I learn'd a clear and wild-toned note,
That rose and swell'd from yonder tree:
A gay bird, with too sweet a throat,
There perch'd and raised her song for me.
The winter comes, and where is she?
Away-where summer wings will rove,
Where buds are fresh, and every tree
Is vocal with the notes of love.

Too mild the breath of southern sky,
Too fresh the flower that blushes there,
The northern breeze that rustles by,
Finds leaves too green and buds too fair;
No forest-tree stands stripp'd and bare,
No stream beneath the ice is dead,

No mountain-top, with sleety hair,
Bends o'er the snows its reverend head.

Go there with all the birds, and seek
A happier clime, with livelier flight,
Kiss, with the sun, the evening's cheek,
And leave me lonely with the night.
I'll gaze upon the cold north light,
And mark where all its glories shone-
See!-that it all is fair and bright,
Feel-that it all is cold and gone."

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.

SCENE FROM ATALANTIS.

Scene changes to the Ship-LEON reclining on a cushion -to him, enter ISABEL.

Isa. What wraps you thus, sweet brother? why so sad,

When thus, so trimly, speeds our swan-like bark
Upon the placid waters? You are sick,

And in your eye a dim abstraction lies,

Lacking all sense; and, as it were, at search
For airy speculations in the deep.

Leon. Why, thou art right: a speculation true,

For I behold naught that may speak for it,
And tell me whence it comes.

Isa. What is't thou say'st?

Leon. Stay but a moment! as I live, I heard it Steal by me, like the whispers of a lute

From thy own lattice, Isabel.

Isa. Heard what?

What is it that thou speak'st of?

Leon. A sound-a strain,

Even as the softest music, heard afar,
At twilight, o'er our Andalusian hills,
From melancholy maiden, by me crept,
But now, upon the waters. They were tones
Slight as a spirit's whisperings; and, as far
As met my sense, they had a gentle voice,
Tremulous as an echo faintly made,
The replication of an infant's cry,
Thrown back from some rude mountain.
Isa. Thou dreamest.

Whence should such music come?

Leon. Ay, where or whence,

But from some green-haired maiden of the sea?
If thou believ'st me, Isabel, 'tis true;

I heard it even now, and syllabled

Into familiar sounds, that conjured up

My boyhood's earliest dreams: of isles, that lie
In farthest depths of ocean; girt with all

Of natural wealth and splendour-jewell'd islesBoundless in unimaginable spoils,

That earth is stranger to.

Isa. Thou dreamest still :

Thy boyhood's legends carry thee away,

Till thou forgett'st the mighty difference

[toils,

"Twixt those two worlds-the one, where nature The other she but dreams of.

Leon. I dream not:

I heard it visibly to the sense, and hark!

It comes again: dost thou not hear it now?
List now, dear Isabel.

Isa. I hear naught.

Leon. Surely I marked it then; I could not dream: "Twas like the winds among a bed of reeds,

And spoke a deep, heart-melancholy sound,
That made me sigh when I heard it.

Isa. No more!

Thou art too led away by idle thoughts,
Dear Leon; and, I fear me, thou dost take
Too much the colour of the passing cloud,
Filling thy heart with shadowings, that mislead
Thy roving thoughts, already too much prone
To empty speculation.

Leon. 1 said not wrong:

My spirit trick'd me not: my sense was true.
I hear it now again. Far, far off, fine-
So delicate, as if some spirit form

Were for the first time murmuring into life,
And this its first complaining. Hearken now-
Nay, Isabel! thou dost not longer doubt-
Thy ears are traitors if they did not feel
The music as it came by us but now.

Isa. I heard a murmur truly, but so slight,
A breath of the wind might make it, or a sail
Drawn suddenly.

Leon. Now, now, thou hast it there:

Thou dost not longer question. It is there.

Spirit sings.

O'er the wide world of ocean

My home is afar,
Beyond its commotion,
I laugh at its war;
Yet by destiny bidden,
I cannot deny,

All night I have ridden
From my home in the sky.

In the billow before thee
My form is conceal'd,

In the breath that comes o'er thee

My thought is reveal'd;

Strown thickly beneath me

The coral rocks grow,

And the waves that enwreath me

Are working thee wo.

Leon. Did'st hear the strain it utter'd, Isabel ? Isa. All, all! It spoke, methought, of peril near, From rocks and wiles of the ocean: did it not? Leon. It did, but idly! Here can lurk no rocks; For, by the chart which now before me lies, Thy own unpractised eye may well discern The wide extent of the ocean-shoreless all. The land, for many a league, to th' eastward hangs, And not a point beside it.

Isa. Wherefore, then,

Should come this voice of warning?

Leon. From the deep:

It hath its demons as the earth and air,

All tributaries to the master-fiend

That sets their springs in motion. This is one,
That, doubting to mislead us, plants this wile,
So to divert our course, that we may strike
The very rocks he fain would warn us from.