The scud was flying athwart the sky, II. The mariner swayed and rocked on the mast, Down the yawning wave his eye he cast, For their broad, damp fins were under the tide, III. Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship goes A sheet of flame is the spray she throws, But the ship is fleet and strong; The topsails are reefed, and the sails are furled, IV. Wildly she rocks, but he swingeth at ease, And, as she careens to the crowding breeze, And the surging heareth loud. Was that a face, looking up at him With its pallid cheek, and its cold eyes dim? V. The mariner looked, and he saw, with dread. And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead, The stout ship rocked with a reeling speed, VI. Bethink thee, mariner, well of the past: There's a stifled prayer, the first, the last; Bethink thee of oaths, that were lightly spoken, VII. Alone in the dark, alone on the wave To struggle aghast at thy watery grave, The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past; The white brow gleams a moment more, Then slowly sinks-the struggle is o'er. VIII Down, down, where the storm is hushed to sleep, Where the amber-drops for thee shall weep, There thou shalt slumber well. The gem and the pearl lie heaped at thy side; IX. A peopled home is the ocean-bed; The mother and child are there: As the water moveth they slightly sway, EXERCISE CLXXXIV. GEORGE CRABBE, the poet, was born in Suffolk, England, December 24th, 1754, and died at Trowbridge, in Wiltshire, February 3d, 1832. He was destined for the medical profession, but his tastes ultimately carried him to that of literature. Among his productions, as a poet, the "Village" and the "Parish Register" are justly accounted the best. In the delineation of character, in minute description of scenes and circumstances, especially those in humble life, he is severely true and touching. His sympathies lay with the poor, the friendless, the unfortunate, and, in his lines, vice and wretchedness are painted in colors too vivid to be without interest to the dullest mind. He was, in truth, what Byron affirmed of him-"nature's sternest painter, yet the best." PORTRAIT OF A PEASANT. I. Next to these ladies, but in naught allied, A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. CRABBE Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace; II. Were others joyful, he looked smiling on, (Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind III. If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride, Who, in their base contempt, the great deride; Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed, If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed; Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew None his superior, and his equals few : But, if that spirit, in his soul, had place, It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace; A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained, In sturdy boys to virtuous labors trained; Pride in the power that guards his country's coast, GRADUAL APPROACHES OF AGE. CRABBE I. Six years had passed, and forty ere the six, When time began to play his usual tricks; The locks, once comely in a virgin's sight,— Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching white; And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man. II. 1 showed my stranger guest those hills sublime, But said, "The view is poor; we need not climb.” At a friend's mansion I began to dread The cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed; And must have all things in my order placed. III. My morning walks I now could bear to lose, And blessed the shower that gave me not to choose, In fact, I felt a languor stealing on; The active arm, the agile hand, were gone; Small daily actions into habits grew, And new dislike to forms and fashions new. I loved my trees in order to dispose; I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose; |