roars. In such cases vessels are often driven far out of their course, dashed to pieces by the waves, and swallowed up. Sometimes the storm drives them against sandbanks and rocks, where they are entirely wrecked. Whirlpools, or those masses of water which make the vessel turn rapidly round, and, at last, swallow it up; these gulfs and whirlpools are occasioned by great cavities in the sea, where rocks and opposite currents meet. No less dangerous are the waterspouts, which the wind lifts from the sea towards the sky. They hover in the air over the sea, and the wind causes them to twist and turn with violence. They often burst with a great crash, and do great damage: for when they approach a vessel they mingle with its sails, raise it aloft, and shake it to pieces, or precipitate it to the bottom. At least, if they do not carry it away, they break the mast, tear the sails, and drown the vessel. Many ships perish by similar causes."-Sturm's Reflections.

THE sea, the sea, the open sea,

The blue, the fresh, the ever free:
Without a mark, without a bound,

It runneth the earth's wide regions round.
It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies,
Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea, I'm on the sea,

I am where I would ever be,

With the blue above and the blue below

And silence wheresoe'er I

go.

If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love, O how I love to ride

On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
And whistles aloft his tempest tune:
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the south-west wind doth blow.
I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more,
And backwards flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest-
And a mother she was and is to me,
For I was born on the open sea.

The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;
The whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild,
As welcomed to life the ocean child.

I have lived since then in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a rover's life,
With wealth to spend and a power to range,
But never have sought or sighed for change.
And death, whenever he comes to me,
Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea.

BARRY CORNWALL.

XXVIII. THE SAILOR'S GRAVE.

"THE land service for the burial of the dead contains the following words: Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God, of his great mercy, to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth; ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope,' &c. Every one, I am sure, who has attended the funeral of a friend (and whom will this not include?), must recollect the solemnity of that stage of the ceremony where, as the above words are pronounced, there are cast into the grave three successive portions of earth; which, falling on the coffin, send up a hollow, mournful sound, resembling no other that I know. In the burial service at sea, the part quoted above is varied in the following very striking and solemn manner:-Forasmuch,' &c., we therefore commit his body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body, when the sea shall give up her dead, and the life of the world to come." "-B. Hall's Voyages.

6

THERE is in the lone, lone sea,

A spot unmarked but holy,
For there the gallant and the free
In his ocean bed lies lowly.
Down, down beneath the deep,

That oft in triumph bore him,
He sleeps a sound and peaceful sleep
With the wild waves dashing o'er him.

He sleeps he sleeps, serene, and safe
From tempest and from billow,
Where storms that high above him chafe
Scarce rock his peaceful pillow.

The sea and him in death

They did not dare to sever;

It was his home when he had breath,
'Tis now his home for ever.
Sleep on-sleep on, thou mighty dead!
A glorious tomb they've found thee;
The broad blue sky above thee spread,
The boundless ocean round thee.

HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR.

No vulgar foot treads here,

No hand profane shall move thee,
But gallant hearts shall proudly steer,
And warriors shout above thee.
And though no stone may tell

Thy name, thy worth, thy glory,
They rest in hearts that love thee well,
And they grace Britannia's story.

217

ANONYMOUS.

XXIX. HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR.

"AMONG the northern constellations, there is none so remarkable as that which is nearest to the pole, and which is termed the Little Bear. The last star of its tail is less than two degrees distant from the pole. On this account it is called the polar star. It is easy to distinguish this from the stars near it, because it scarcely appears to change its position, and is always seen in the same point of the heavens. It appears, indeed, to revolve around the pole; but its motion is so slow, and the circle which it describes so small, that it is scarcely perceptible. Its situation, therefore, can be very little varied; and as it is seen in all seasons of the year, in the same point of the firmament, it becomes a sure guide to the mariner, particularly in the open seas. Before the discovery of the magnet, sailors had no surer guide than the polar star; and even now, when the sky is serene, they may depend more confidently on this star than on the magnetic needle."-Sturm's Reflections.

THE sad and solemn Night

Has yet her multitude of cheerful fires ;

The glorious host of light

Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires;

All through her silent watches, gliding slow,

Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go.

Day, too, hath many a star

To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they :
Through the blue fields afar,

Unseen, they follow in his flaming way;
Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim,
Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him.
And thou dost see them rise,

Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set.
Alone in thy cold skies,

Thou keep'st thy old, unmoving station yet,
Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train,
Nor dipp'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main.

There, at morn's rosy birth,

Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air,
And eve, that round the earth

Chases the day, beholds thee watching there;
There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls
The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls.

Alike, beneath thine eye,

The deeds of darkness and of light are done;

High towards the starlit sky

Towns blaze-the smoke of battle blots the sun

The nightstorm on a thousand hills is loud

And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud.

On thy unaltering blaze

The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost,

Fixes his steady gaze,

And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast:

And they who stray in perilous wastes by night,

Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right.

And, therefore, bards of old,

Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood,

Did in thy beams behold

A beauteous type of that unchanging good,

That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray

The voyager of time should shape his heedful way.

BRYANT.

XXX. THE SECRET OF THE SEA.

"THERE is mystery in the sea. There is mystery in its depths. It is unfathomed, and perhaps unfathomable. Who can tell, who shall know, how near its pits run down to the central core of the world? Who can tell what wells, what fountains are there, to which the fountains of the earth are in comparison but drops? Who shall say whence the ocean derives those inexhaustible supplies of salt, which so impregnate its waters that all the rivers of the earth, flowing into it from the time of Creation, have not been able to freshen them? What undescribed monsters, what unimaginable shapes, may be roving in the profoundest places of the sea, never seeking, and perhaps from their nature unable to seek, the upper waters, and expose themselves to the gaze of man? What glittering riches, what heaps of gold, what stores of gems, there must be scattered in lavish profusion on the ocean's bed? What spoils from all climates, what works of art from all lands, have been engulfed by the insatiable and reckless waves? Who shall go down to examine and reclaim this uncounted and idle wealth? Who bears the keys of the deep?"- Grace Green

wood.

THE SECRET OF THE SEA.

AH! what pleasant visions haunt me
As I gaze upon the sea!
All the old romantic legends,

All my dreams, come back to me.
Sails of silk and ropes of sandal,
Such as gleam in ancient lore;
And the singing of the sailors,
And the answer from the shore.
Most of all, the Spanish ballad
Haunts me oft, and tarries long,
Of the noble Count Arnaldos
And the sailor's mystic song.
Like the long waves on a sea-beach,
Where the sand as silver shines,
With a soft, monotonous cadence,
Flow its unrhymed lyric lines.
Telling how the Count Arnaldos,
With his hawk upon his hand,
Saw a fair and stately galley,
Steering onward to the land.

How he heard the ancient helmsman
Chant a song so wild and clear,
That the sailing seabird slowly
Poised upon the mast to hear.

Till his soul was full of longing,

And he cried, with impulse strong,
"Helmsman! for the love of heaven,
Teach me too that wondrous song!"

"Wouldst thou," so the helmsman answered,
'Learn the secret of the sea?
Only those who brave its dangers
Comprehend its mystery!"

In each sail that skims the horizon,
In each landward-blowing breeze,

I behold that stately galley,
Hear those mournful melodies.

Till my soul is full of longing

For the secret of the sea,

And the heart of the great ocean

Sends a thrilling pulse through me.

219

LONGFELLOW.