Poetry
... THE DEAD MARINER.-By G. D. rPXVrE. SLEEP on, sleep on I above thy corse The winds their Sabbath keep The waves are round thee, and thy breast Reaves with tho heaving deep. O'er thee mild eve her beauty flings, And there tho white gull lifts her wings. And the blue halcyon loves to lave Her plumage in the deep blue wave. Sleep on; no willow o'er thee bends with melancholy air, No violet springs ...