Ан yes, my friend, I am nothing now
But a battered old Seventy-Four-

No Youth at the helm, and Hope at the prow,
As once in the days of yore ;—

In the gallant old days, now gone, now dead,
When I was so young, strong, free,

With my sails all spread and my flag at my head
Ready to brave any sea,

Any storm, any danger, if only it led

To Glory and Victory.

Ah, those were the glorious days of old

That I never again shall know!

Dear days, that were once so glad and bold

In the young, brave long ago,—

When the winds were my playmates, the sea my bride, And over the billows in joy and pride

Unfearing I used to ride;

Dear days, that are now so dead and cold,
For which Time's funeral bells have tolled
Their dirges of sorrow and woe.

I am nothing now but a shattered old hulk
With not even a sail or mast,

Laid up in the dock to rot and to sulk,
And to brag of the days that are past.
There is only one gun, an old cracked one,
That is left me here on my deck,

From which hot shot in the days that are not
I fired from this shattered old wreck.

Despoiled and bereft, and with nothing left,
I am kept here, who knows why,

Save to tell the old tales till my memory fails
Of the glorious days gone by,—

Of the battles I fought, of the din of war,
Of the times of peace, of the voyages far
Into many a sea and clime

That I made in the good, old, well-rigged time,

When life was without a care,

And I, in my strength and prime.

Now, far away to the tropic isles,

Where the love-birds of Paradise flash through the air, And the year's long summer sleeps lingering there,

And the deep blue heaven smiles,—

Now, to the North where the icebergs high

Topple all flashing against the sky,

Or into the seas at their bases lashing,
Splitting, fall with a sudden crashing,

And the white gulls startled fly.

Ah then, on the world how gladly I went,
With a craving of wild unrest;

No doubt, no question my spirit oppressed,
But on, with my sails all trimmed and bent,
Joyous I sailed, and this wretched old hull
Was ready to lie in the tropic's lull,
When the winds were all asleep,

Or the tempest and storm unfearing to breast
When they roused their revel to keep.

You may laugh if you choose, and scorn and abuse

Those good old sailing days

You may boast of your steam and your wheels and your screws,

And all your new-fangled ways;

But for beauty and grace you must take second place,

However your use you praise.

Ah yes! for a braver and gallanter sight

On the ocean you never will find

Than an old three-master, its canvas white
All rounded out to the wind,-

Not hammering, panting along the sea
With a ceaseless splashing and noise,
But almost flying, bending, careening,
Now up erect, now sideways leaning,
With an ever-shifting poise.

Ah, that was sailing! ah, that was living!
How we went in those days! how we went!

The winds from heaven their impulse giving,

And we joying in what they sent!

How we played with the storm and laughed with the tempest, As under their pressure we bent,

The wild seas leaping, and rushing, and sweeping

Over our decks and sides;

Our sharp prow lifting high up, and cleaving

The dark blue billows before it heaving,

As over them bravely it rides ;

Or downward stooping and into them swooping,
As greenly they yawned beneath,

Into their deep black caverns scooping,
With a foam-bone in its teeth,-

While above, at the mast-head flying free,

And playing with the wind,

Streamed the good old flag, and after us sweeping
Came the following gulls, their orbed wings dipping
In the foam-fringed edge of the billows upleaping
In the rustling wake behind.

How we used to speed o'er the summer seas
With hearts so happy and light,-

Our full sails strained by the steady breeze,
And scarcely a cloud in sight!

All the long fresh day how we sped away,

With never a dream of care

All the moonlight night, so clear and bright,
With its few large stars and rare!

Singing and laughing, and jesting and chaffing,
Not knowing how happy we were!
Ah! then we lived, we lived, my boy!

Life was not then a remembered joy;

But we lived in the Present, and wide-eyed Hope Had the key of the Future, and promised to ope New Joys in the Life before.

And we panted for more and more, Never content, though we wildly spent Of the Present's abundant store,

Scarcely knowing how happy Life was, as it went,
Till the voyage of Youth was o'er ;-

For 'tis only at last, looking back at the Past
And its dear sweet long-ago,

With its careless joys, and its brief annoys,
How happy we were we know !

Now!-ah now!-but 'tis useless to sigh
For the dear old days gone utterly by,-
The glad old time of my strength and prime,
That only in dreams I see,—

As afar they sleep in the distance deep
Of my fading memory.

Here all alone, life's voyages done,

Its banners and sails and masts cut down,
Everything but the old timbers gone,
Useless and hopeless I lie

In the narrow dead dock of Age,-
And silently wait till the fiat of Fate
Turn over Life's last sad page,

Open wide with its key this prison gate

And set me free from this cage;

And I hear the stern cry sounding low but clear—
Break up the old hulk, throw its fragments away!
"Twas a good old ship, perhaps, as you say,
But 'tis useless now, it has had its day,
It only encumbers us here!

But even here, when the guns on the shore
Peal out, I can feel the old battle's roar
Sounding again, that I never more,
While life remains, shall forget,
When out on the sea the enemy
In my fighting trim I met!
Ah! my old hulk, each shotted gun
Then pealed in a thundering unison,
And I seem to hear them yet,—
Flashing and crashing, the balls come dashing
On their savage errand of death

Through sails, yard, mast, coming thundering past
And sweeping the decks beneath.

Ah! the wild shrill cries, and the agonies

Of the wounded-the decks all red

With the blood of the dying and dead!
The living all firing and loading-
The guns in flashes exploding—
And the fierce wild courage and cry

As the balls told sternly their terrible tale,
Sweeping the decks with their iron hail,
Tearing through masts and yard and sail,
As they crashed relentlessly by ;

Till after what seemed like months had passed,
Though they were but moments-at last-at last
The enemy's flag was struck from the mast,
To our wild cry-Victory!

Ah! my friend, what am I, that am bragging so
Of the time that is dead and gone?

What am I now-
v-from stern to prow,

But a wretched old hulk, razeed, cut down,

With not even one old cracked gun ?—

That never again will feel the strain

Of the wind in my swelling sails,

Never freely careening, and swinging, and leaning,
Speed over the bounding main.

Never!-ah, never again!

Even now while I tell these old-world tales,
Though you listen with deference due

To age, old age, there's a hidden smile

Lurks under that deference all the while,

And a smile of pity too.

Still, while I am telling, my heart keeps swelling
With thoughts of the days I knew,

Till I almost seem to feel those gales
Blowing again in my swelling sails,
As once they used to do.

But pardon !-pardon !-I'll say no more;
I'm a poor old hulk, and the days of yore,
With all their gladness and reckless madness,

For me are utterly o'er!

And perhaps even you, if you're honest and true,
Will confess that this prattle of voyage and battle
Is simply a tedious bore,

Or at best must seem like the idle dream

Of a bragging old "Seventy-Four."

W. W. STORY.

THE PRETENDER AT BAR-LE-DUC.