And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
But through them there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, Boatman, do not tarry!

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?"

"Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who would cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?"

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight
"I'll go, my chief,-I'm ready;
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady.

'And, by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry:

So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

` But still, as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

"Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,

When, oh, too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her!

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover;

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter! Oh, my daughter!

'Twas vain; the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return or aid preventing;

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

THE THREE FISHERS.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

Three fishers went sailing out into the west,—
Out into the west as the sun went down;

Each thought of the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the
shower,

And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown;
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands

In the morning gleam as the tide went down,

And the women are watching and wringing their hands
For those who will never come back to the town;

For men must work, and women must weep,-
And the sooner its over, the sooner to sleep,—
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

THE LOSS OF THE "ROYAL GEORGE.”

WILLIAM COWPER.

At the time of her loss in 1782 the "Royal George" was the finest line-of-battle ship in the British navy. While in harbor near Portsmouth, during some slight repairs, all the heavy guns were placed on one side and the vessel was heeled over, when a gust of wind caused her to capsize. Admiral Kempenfelt and eight hundred of his crew were drowned. This disaster was equalled by the loss of the British battleship Victoria in 1893.

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 its 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 tears 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.

THE INCHCAPE ROCK.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was as still as she could be;
Her sails from heaven received no motion;
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock.
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The Abbot of Aberbrothok

Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung;
And over the waves its warning rung.

When the rock was hid by the surges' swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous rock,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The sun in heaven was shining gay;
All things were joyful on that day;

The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round,
And there was joyance in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen,
A darker speck on the ocean green:
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck,
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power

of spring:

It made him whistle, it made him sing:
His heart was mirthful to excess,

But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape rock,

And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok."