A WORLD WITHOUT WATER. Yesternight I pray'd aloud, In anguish and in agony; Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me. I HAD a dream in the dead of night, I thought the world stood in affright, Coleridge. I thought there had fallen no cooling rain And I was standing on a hill, I know not how it was; but still Beneath me was a far-spread heath, But now the sultry glance of the sun, And farther on was a stately wood, But now like autumn wrecks they stood And every leaf, though dead, did keep For there was not one breath to sweep As though death were too busy with other things Oh, terrible it was to think And how the scorched foot did shrink And some had gather'd beneath the trees But alas! there was not a single breeze The cities were forsaken, For their marble wells were spent; And their walls gave back the scorching glare Of that hot firmament: But the corses of those who died were strewn And dry they wither'd-and wither'd alone, Night came. The fiery sun sank down, It was a night without a moon, "T was almost cool: and then they thought Vain was the hope!-there was no cloud And women sat them down to weep And men had visions dark and deep, And children sobb'd themselves to sleep, The morning rose-not as it comes Not with those cool and fresh perfumes A mother held her child to her breast And then she saw her infant smile; A tear had sprung with a sudden start, It had fallen upon that faint child's lip I look'd upon the mighty Sea; All its waves were gone save two or three, Within the caves of those deep rocks Where no human foot could pass. And in the very midst, a ship Oh! water had been a welcome sight To that pale dying band! Oh, what a sight was the bed of the Sea! The bed where he had slept, Or toss'd and tumbled restlessly, And all his treasures kept For ages: he was gone; and all With their clustering shells, and sea-weed pall, And the monsters of the deep lay dead, I turn'd away from earth and sea, And I began to feel the pang- I had a scorching swelling pain, My tongue seem'd parch'd; I tried to speak- And, starting at my own wild shriek, In mercy I awoke. MISS M. A. BROWNE. THE LILY. Addressed to a Young Lady on her entrance into Life FLOWER of light! forget thy birth, Lift the beauty of thine eye While thy graceful buds unfold Morn with snow-white splendour bless, So may she whose name I write, JAMES MONTGOMERY. ADDRESS TO A PRIMROSE. FLOWER! thou art not the same to me The hue has faded from thy face, And many a blossom round my path |