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Childlike, as then, I lie to-night,
And watch my lonely cabin-light.
Each movement of the swaying lamp
Shows how the vessel reels,
And o'er her deck the billows tramp,
And all her timbers strain and cramp
With every shock she feels;

It starts and shudders, while it burns,
And in its hingèd socket turns.

Now swinging slow, and slanting low,
It almost level lies:

And yet I know, while to and fro
I watch the seeming pendule go
With restless fall and rise,
The steady shaft is still upright,
Poising its little globe of light.
O hand of God! O lamp of peace!

O promise of my soul!
Though weak and toss'd, and ill at ease
Amid the roar of smiting seas,—
The ship's convulsive roll,-
I own, with love and tender awe,
Yon perfect type of faith and law.

A heavenly trust my spirit calms,—
My soul is fill'd with light;
The ocean sings his solemn psalms;
The wild winds chant; I cross my palms;
Happy, as if to-night,
Under the cottage-roof again,
I heard the soothing summer rain.

JOHN T. TROWBRIDGE.

WHERE LIES THE LAND?

WHERE lies the land to which the ship would go?

Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know; And where the land she travels from? Away,

Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face,

Link'd arm in arm, how pleasant here to

pace;

Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below The foaming wake far widening as we go.

On stormy nights when wild north-westers

rave,

How proud a thing to fight with wind and

wave!

The dripping sailor on the reeling mast Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.

Where lies the land to which the ship would go?

Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know; And where the land she travels from? Away,

Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

BY THE AUTUMN SEA.

FAIR as the dawn of the fairest day,
Sad as the evening's tender gray,
By the latest lustre of sunset kissed,
That wavers and wanes through an amber
mist,

There cometh a dream of the past to me,
On the desert sands by the autumn sea.

All heaven is wrapped in a mystic veil, And the face of the ocean is dim and pale, And there rises a wind from the chill north-west

That seemeth the wail of a soul's unrest,
As the twilight falls, and the vapors flee
Far over the wastes of the autumn sea.

A single ship through the gloaming glides,
Upborne on the swell of the seaward tides;
And above the gleam of her topmast spar
Are the virgin eyes of the vesper-star
That shine with an angel's ruth on me,
A hopeless waif, by the autumn sea.

The wings of the ghostly beach-birds gleam
Through the shimmering surf, and the cur-

lew's scream

Falls faintly shrill from the darkening height;

The first weird sigh on the lips of Night Breathes low through the sedge and the blasted tree,

With a murmur of doom, by the autumn

sea.

O sky-enshadowed and yearning main! Your gloom but deepens this human pain; Those waves seem big with a nameless care, That sky is a type of the heart's despair, As I linger and muse by the sombre lea, And the night-shades close on the autumn

sea.

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE,

POEMS OF

PLACES.

THE EMIGRANTS IN THE BER

MUDAS.

WHERE the remote Bermudas ride
In th' ocean's bosom, unespied—
From a small boat, that row'd along,
The list'ning winds received this song:

What should we do but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks That lift the deep upon their backs, He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage. He gave us this eternal spring Which here enamels every thing, And sends the fowls to us in care, On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright, Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet. But apples-plants of such a price No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars, chosen by His hand From Lebanon, He stores the land; And makes the hollow seas, that roar, Proclaim the ambergris on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The gospel's pearl upon our coast; And in these rocks for us did frame A temple, where to sound His name. Oh! let our voice His praise exalt Till it arrive at heaven's vault; Which, then, perhaps rebounding, may Echo beyond the Mexique bay.

Thus sang they, in the English boat, A holy and a cheerful note;

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Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will; Dear God! the very houses seem asleep, And all that mighty heart is lying still.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

To a sheepskin gave the story:
Said he saw you in your glory
Underneath a new old-sign,
Sipping beverage divine,

And pledging with contented smack
The mermaid in the Zodiac!
Souls of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known —

Happy field or mossy cavern

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? JOHN KEATS

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

MORTALITY, behold and fear

What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within these heaps of stones!
Here they lie, had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their
hands,

Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
They preach, "In greatness is no trust."
Here's an acre sown indeed
With the richest, royallest seed
That the earth did e'er suck in

Since the first man died for sin;

Here the bones of birth have cried,

SONNET.

WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WINDSOR CASTLE. FROM beauteous Windsor's high and stor ied halls

Where Edward's chiefs start from the glowing walls,

To my low cot from ivory beds of state, Pleased I return unenvious of the great. So the bee ranges o'er the varied scenes Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of greens,

Pervades the thicket, soars above the hill,

"Though gods they were, as men they Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring

died!"

Here are sands, ignoble things,

Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings; Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN.

SOULS of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known--
Happy field or mossy cavern-
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
of venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.

I have heard that on a day
Mine host's signboard flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill

rill:

Now haunts old hollow'd oaks, deserted

cells,

Now seeks the low vale lily's silver bells; Sips the warm fragrance of the greenhouse bowers,

And tastes the myrtle and the citron's

flowers;

At length returning to the wonted comb, Prefers to all his little straw-built home. THOMAS WARTON.

ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON
COLLEGE.

YE distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watʼry glade,
Where grateful Science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade;
And ye that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers

among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver winding way:

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!

Ah, fields beloved in vain !--

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Where once my careless childhood stray'd, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales that from ye blow

A momentary bliss bestow,

As, waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames-for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,
The paths of pleasure trace—
Who foremost now delight to cleave,
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which enthrall?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While some, on urgent business bent,
Their murmuring labors ply
'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint

To sweeten liberty;

Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry ;
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,

And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by Fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast: Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer, of vigor born ; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly th' approach of morn. Alas! regardless of their doom,

The little victims play;

No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day;
Yet see, how all around them wait

The ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murderous band! Ah, tell them, they are men'

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And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart: And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart.

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ELEGIAC STANZAS.

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT.

I WAS thy Neighbor once, thou rugged Pile! Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of

thee.

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