And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. THOMAS CAMPBELL. A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, "Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, "And fast before her father's men "His horsemen hard behind us ride; Out spoke the hardy Highland wight 'And, by my word! the bonny bird So, though the waves are raging white, By this the storm grew loud apace, ` But still, as wilder blew the wind, "Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, When, oh, too strong for human hand, And still they rowed amidst the roar 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, '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,— Each thought of the woman who loved him the best, Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown; 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 men must work, and women must weep,- 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, And laid her on her side. A land breeze shook the shrouds, Down went the "Royal George," 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; His sword was in its sheath; 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, Without either sign or sound of their shock, The Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock; When the rock was hid by the surges' swell, The sun in heaven was shining gay; The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round, The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen, He felt the cheering power of spring: It made him whistle, it made him sing: But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. His eye was on the Inchcape float; And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok." |