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AT NEWPORT.

  I stand beside the sea once more;
    Its measured murmur comes to me;
  The breeze is low upon the shore,
    And low upon the purple sea.

  Across the bay the flat sand sweeps,
    To where the helmed light-house stands
  Upon his post, and vigil keeps,
    Far seaward marshaling all the lands.

  The hollow surges rise and fall,
    The ships steal up the quiet bay;
  I scarcely hear or see at all,
    My thoughts are flown so far away.

  They follow on yon sea-bird’s track. 
    Beyond the beacon’s crystal dome;
  They will not falter, nor come back,
    Until they find my darkened home.

  Ah, woe is me! ’tis scarce a year
    Since, gazing o’er this moaning main,
  My thoughts flew home without a fear. 
    And with content returned again.

  To-day, alas! the fancies dark
    That from my laden bosom flew,
  Returning, came into the ark,
    Not with the olive, with the yew.

  The ships draw slowly towards the strand,
    The watchers’ hearts with hope beat high;
  But ne’er again wilt thou touch land—­
  Lost, lost in yonder sapphire sky!

—­Geo. H. Boker.

MILLERISM.

Toward the close of the last century there was born in New England one William Miller, whose life, until he was past fifty, was the life of the average American of his time.  He drank, we suppose, his share of New England rum, when a young man; married a comely Yankee girl, and reared a family of chubby-cheeked children; went about his business, whatever it was, on week days, and when Sunday came, went to meeting with commendable regularity.  He certainly read the Old Testament, especially the Book of Daniel, and of the New Testament at least the Book of Revelation.  Like many a wiser man before him, he was troubled at what he read, filled as it was with mystical numbers and strange beasts, and he sought to understand it, and to apply it to the days in which he lived.  He made the discovery that the world was to be destroyed in 1843, and went to and fro in the land preaching that comfortable doctrine.  He had many followers—­as many as fifty thousand, it is said, who thought they were prepared for the end of all things; some going so far as to lay in a large stock of ascension robes.  Though no writer himself, he was the cause of a great deal of writing on the part of others, who flooded the land with a special and curious literature—­the literature of Millerism.  It is not of that, however, that we would speak now.