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."
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 "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!
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 breast!
From the high hills, that view
Thy wreck-making shore,
When the bride of the mariner
Shrieks at thy roar;
When like lambs in the tempest,
Or mews in the blast,
O'er thy ridge-broken billows,
The canvass is cast,-
How humbling to one
With a heart and a soul,
To look on thy greatness
And list to its roll,
To think how that heart
In cold ashes shall be,
While the voice of Eternity
Rises from thee!
Yes! where are the cities
Of Thebes and of Tyre?
Swept from the nations
Like sparks from the fire;
The glory of Athens,
The splendor of Rome?
Dissolved, and for ever,—
Like dew in thy foam.
But thou art almighty,-
Eternal,-sublime,-
Unweakened,-unwasted,-
Twin brother of Time!
Fleets, tempests, nor nations
Thy glory can bow;
As the stars first beheld thee,
Still chainless art thou!
But, hold! when thy surges
No longer shall roll,
And that firmament's length
Is drawn back like a scroll;
Then, then shall the spirit
That sighs by thee now,
Be more mighty,-more lasting,— More chainless, than thou.
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.
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;
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.
|