The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen,
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck,
And he fixt 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 Aberbrothock."

The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sank the bell with a gurgling sound,

The bubbles rose and burst around;

Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothock.

Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away,

He scour'd the seas for many a day;
And now, grown rich with plunder'd store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky,
They can not see the sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it had died away.

On deck the Rover takes his stand,
So dark it is they see no land.

Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon."

'Canst hear," said one, "the breakers' roar? For methinks we should be near the shore." "Now where we are I can not tell,

But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell!"

They hear no sound, the swell is strong; Tho the wind had fallen they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock"Oh! heavens! it is the Inchcape Rock!"

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He curst himself in his despair;
The waves rush in on every side,

The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But even now, in his dying fear,

One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,
A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell

The fiends in triumph were ringing his knell.

LIFE

ANONYMOUS

Like to a damask rose you see,
Or like a blossom on a tree,
Or like the dainty flower in May,
Or like the morning to the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade;
Or like the gourd, which Jonah made:
Even such is man, whose thread is spun,
Drawn out and out, and so is done.

The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,

The gourd consumes, the man-he dies.

Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like the tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearled dew in May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of the swan:
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended,
The hour is short, the span not long,
The swan's near death, man's life is done.

Like to the bubble in the brook,
Or in a glass much like a look,
Or like the shuttle in weaver's hand,
Or like the writing on the sand,
Or like a thought, or like a dream,
Or like the gliding of the stream:
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The bubble's out, the look forgot,
The shuttle's flung, the writing's blot,
The thought is past, the dream is gone,
The waters glide, man's life is done.

Like to an arrow from a bow,
Or like swift course of water flow:
Or like the time 'twixt flood and ebb,
Or like the spider's tender web,
Or like a race, or like a goal,
Or like the dealing of a dole:
Even such is man, whose brittle state
Is always subject unto fate.

The arrow shot, the flood soon spent,
The time no time, the web soon rent,
The race soon run, the goal soon won,
The dole soon dealt, man's life soon done.

Like to the lightning from the sky,
Or like a post that quick doth hie,
Or like a quaver in a song,

Or like a journey three days long,
Or like the snow when summer's come,
Or like a pear, or like a plum:
Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow,
Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow.
The lightning's past, the post must go,
The song is short, the journey so,
The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall,
The snow dissolves, and so must all.

ON THE POWER OF SOUND

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Written at Rydal Mount. I have often regretted that my tour in Ireland, chiefly performed in the short days of October in a carriage-and-four (I was with Mr. Marshall), supplied my memory with so few images that were new, and with so little motive to write. The lines, however, in this poem, "Thou too be heard, lone eagle!" were suggested near the Giant's Causeway, or rather at the promontory of Fairhead, where a pair of eagles wheeled above our heads and darted off as if to hide themselves.

ARGUMENT

The Ear addrest, as occupied by a spiritual functionary, in communion with sounds, individual, or combined in studied harmony-Sources and effects of those sounds (to the close of 6th Stanza)-The power of music, whence proceeding, exemplified in the idiot-Origin of music, and its effect in early ages-How produced (to the middle of tenth Stanza)-The mind recalled to sounds acting casu

ally and severally-Wish uttered (11th Stanza) that these could be united into a scheme or system for moral interests and intellectual contemplation-(Stanza 12th) The Pythagorean theory of numbers and music, with their supposed power over the motions of the universe-Imaginations consonant with such a theory-Wish exprest (in 11th Stanza) realized, in some degree, by the representation of all sounds under the form of thanksgiving to the Creator)— (Last Stanza) The destruction of the earth and the planetary system-The survival of audible harmony, and its support in the Divine Nature, as revealed in Holy Writ.

Thy functions are ethereal,

I

As if within thee dwelt a glancing mind,
Organ of vision! And a Spirit aerial

Informs the cell of Hearing, dark and blind;
Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought
To enter than oracular cave;

Strict passage, through which sighs are brought,
And whispers for the heart, their slave;
And shrieks, that revel in abuse

Of shivering flesh; and warbled air,

Whose piercing sweetness can unloose

The chains of frenzy, or entice a smile

Into the ambush of despair;

Hosannas pealing down the longdrawn aisle,
And requiems answered by the pulse that beats
Devoutly, in life's last retreats!

II

The headlong streams and fountains

Serve Thee, invisible Spirit, with untired powers;
Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian mountains,
They lull perchance ten thousand thousand flowers.
That roar, the prowling lion's Here I am,
How fearful to the desert wide!