With the western wind full many a boat
      Their white sails gayly fill,
    They lightly o’er the blue waves float,—­
      But the gallant ship is still.

    The sailors now the mournful wreck
      Of masts and rigging strip;
    The waves are playing o’er the deck
      Of the sad and ruined ship.

    A crow upon the top branch stood
      Of a lone and blasted tree;
    He seemed to look upon the flood
      With a gloomy sympathy.

    The boy now looks up at the bird,
      At the sinking vessel now;
    He does not speak a single word. 
      But a shade is on his brow.

    Now slowly comes a towering wave,
      And sweeps with triumph on;
    It bears her to her watery grave,—­
      The gallant ship is gone.

    Hushed is the ocean’s stormy roar,
      Still as an infant’s joy;
    The father sits upon the shore
      In silence with his boy.

Cohasset Shore, July, 1831.

CHARLEY AND HIS FATHER.

A ballad.

    The birds are flown away,
      The flowers are dead and gone,
    The clouds look cold and gray
      Around the setting sun.

    The trees with solemn sighs
      Their naked branches swing;
    The winter winds arise,
      And mournfully they sing.

    Upon his father’s knee
      Was Charley’s happy place,
    And very thoughtfully
      He looked up in his face;

    And these his simple words:—­
      “Father, how cold it blows! 
    What ’comes of all the birds
      Amidst the storms and snows?”

    “They fly far, far away
      From storms, and snows, and rain;
    But, Charley dear, next May
      They’ll all come back again.”

    “And will my flowers come, too?”
      The little fellow said,
    “And all be bright and new,
      That now looks cold and dead?”

    “O, yes, dear; in the spring
      The flowers will all revive,
    The birds return and sing,
      And all be made alive.”

    “Who shows the birds the way,
      Father, that they must go? 
    And brings them back in May,
      When there is no more snow?

    “And when no flower is seen
      Upon the hill and plain,
    Who’ll make it all so green,
      And bring the flowers again?”

    “My son, there is a Power
      That none of us can see
    Takes care of every flower,
      Gives life to every tree.

    “He through the pathless air
      Shows little birds their way;
    And we, too, are his care,—­
      He guards us day by day.”

    “Father, when people die,
      Will they come back in May?”
    Tears were in Charley’s eye,—­
      “Will they, dear father, say?”