A

A grave and quiet man was he,
Who loved his hook and rod;
So even ran his line of life,

His neighbors thought it odd.

For science and for books, he said,
He never had a wish;

No school to him was worth a fig,
Except a "school" of fish.

This single-minded fisherman
A double calling had,—
To tend his flocks, in winter-time,
In summer fish for shad.

In short this honest fisherman,
All other toils forsook;

And though no vagrant man was he,
He lived by "hook and crook.”

All day that fisherman would sit
Upon an ancient log,
And gaze into the water, like
Some sedentary frog.

A cunning fisherman was he;
His angles all were right;
And when he scratched his aged poll,
You'd know he'd got a bite.

To charm the fish he never spoke,
Although his voice was fine;
He found the most convenient way,
Was just to "drop a line.”

And many a "gudgeon" of the pond,
If made to speak to-day,
Would own with grief, this angler had
A mighty "taking way."

One day, while fishing on the log,
He mourned his want of luck,-

When, suddenly, he felt a bite,

And jerking-caught a duck!

Alas! that day, the fisherman
Had taken too much grog;
And being but a landsman, too,
He could n't "keep the log."

In vain he strove with all his might,
And tried to gain the shore;
Down, down he went to feed the fish
He'd baited oft before!

The moral of this mournful tale

To all is plain and clear:—

A single

66

drop too much" of rum,

May make a watery bier.

And he who will not "sign the pledge,"
And keep his promise fast,

May be, in spite of fate, a stark
Cold-water man, at last!

Ex. VIII. THE OCEAN.

LIKENESS of heaven!

Agent of power!
Man is thy victim,—
Shipwreck thy dower!
Spices and jewels

From valley and sea,
Armies and banners,
Are buried in thee!

What are the riches

Of Mexico's mines,

To the wealth that far down
In thy deep waters shines?
The proud navies that cover
The conquering west-
Thou fling'st them to death

With one heave of thy brst!

From the high hills, that view
Thy wreck-making shore,
When the bride of the mariner
Shrieks at thy roar;

SHEA.

Ex. IX.- FATE OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

TOLL for the brave!

The brave that are no more,—

All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset ;-
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought; His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;

No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in his sheath;
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down,
With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes!

And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound;

And she may float again,

Full-charged with England's thunder,

And plough the distant main..!

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred

Shall plough the wave no more.

COWPER.

Ex. X.- THE SOUND OF THE SEA.

THOU art sounding on, thou mighty sea,
For ever and the same!
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee,
Whose thunders naught can tame.

Oh! many a glorious voice is gone,
From the rich bowers of earth,
And hushed is many a lovely one
Of mournfulness or mirth.

The Dorian flute that sighed of yore
Along thy wave, is still;

The harp of Judah peals no more
On Zion's awful hill.

And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord

That breathed the mystic tone;

MRS. HEMANS

And the songs at Rome's high triumphs poured,
Are with her eagles flown.

And mute the Moorish horn, that rang

O'er stream and mountain free;

And the hymn the leagued crusaders sang,
Hath died in Galilee.

But thou art swelling on, thou deep,
Through many an olden clime,
Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep
Until the close of time.

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice
To every wind and sky;

And all our earth's green shores rejoice
In that one harmony.

It fills the noontide's calm profound,
The sunset's heaven of gold;

And the still midnight hears the sound,
E'en as when first it rolled.

Let there be silence, deep and strange,
Where sceptered cities rose!

Thou speak'st of One who doth not change;-
So may our hearts repose.