The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float. Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound; Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the rock Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away; And now, grown rich with plundered store, So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky, On the deck the Rover takes his stand; "Canst hear," said one," the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore." "Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell." They hear no sound; the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock: "O Heaven! it is the Inchcape Rock!" Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, But even in his dying fear, One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,— THE PIRATE'S ISLAND. RICHARD HENRY DANA. The island lies nine leagues away. Of craggy rock and sandy bay, No sound but ocean's roar, Save where the bold wild sea-bird makes her home, Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam. But when the light winds lie at rest, And on the glassy, heaving sea The black duck, with her glossy breast, How beautiful! no ripples break the reach, And inland rests the green, warm dell; The brook comes tinkling down its side; Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks, Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat, In former days within the vale: Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet; Curses were on the gale; Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men; Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then. But calm, low voices, words of grace, A quiet look is in each face, Subdued and holy fear: Each motion's gentle; all is kindly done; Come, listen how from crime this isle was won. TO A WATERFOWL. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, Seek'st thou the plashy brink There is a Power whose care Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone Will lead my steps aright. COUNTY GUY. WALTER SCOTT. Ah, County Guy! the hour is nigh, The orange flower perfumes the bower, The lark, his lay who trilled all day, The village maid steals through the shade, To beauty shy, by lattice high, The star of Love, all stars above, Now reigns o'er earth and sky; And high and low the influence know- THE OLD SWORD. ALFRED TENNYSON. Old Sword! tho' dim and rusted With cankers Time hath made; Tho' age hath past upon thee Old Sword! what arm hath wielded And who hath cloven his foes in wrath And scattered in his perilous path Old Sword! whose fingers clasped thee And with that hand which grasped thee Old Sword! I would not burnish Nor sweep away the tarnish Of darkness and of dust! The relic of a former day, A wreck of ancient time! HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX. ROBERT BROWNING. This spirited poem is said to have no foundation in fact. I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts un drew; "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. |