'Last night the moon had a golden ring, The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, Colder and louder blew the wind, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm and smote amain She shuddered and paused like a frighted steed, 'Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so ; For I can weather the roughest gale, That ever wind did blow.' He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat, He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. 'O father! I hear the church bells ring, say, what may it be?' "Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!' And he steered for the open sea. 'O father! I hear the sound of guns, Some ship in distress that cannot live 'O father! I see a gleaming light, O say, what may it be?' But the father answered never a word,- Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, The lantern gleam'd through the gleaming snow Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be ; And she thought of Christ who stilled the waves On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, And ever the fitful gusts between The breakers were right beneath her bows, And a whooping billow swept the crew She struck where the white and fleecy waves But the cruel rocks they gored her sides Her rattling shrouds all sheathed in ice, At day-break on the bleak sea-beach, To see the form of a maiden fair Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, And he saw her hair like the brown sea-weed, Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, Heav'n save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe! H. W. Longfellow XLVI A CANADIAN BOAT SONG Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Why should we yet our sail unfurl? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl; G But when the wind blows off the shore, Utawas' tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon. Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, Oh, grant us cool heavens, and favouring airs. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past. T. Moore XLVII O listen, listen, ladies gay! No haughty feat of arms I tell ; Soft is the note, and sad the lay, That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. 'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew, 'The blackening wave is edged with white; 'Last night the gifted seer did view A wet shroud swathed round lady gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch; Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?' "Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my lady-mother there Sits lonely in her castle hall. "Tis not because the ring they ride, And Lindesay at the ring rides well, -O'er Roslin all that dreary night A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fires' light, And redder than the bright moonbeam. It glared on Roslin's castled rock, It ruddied all the copse-wood glen ; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud Seem'd all on fire within, around, Deep sacristy and altar's pale ; Shone every pillar foliage-bound, And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. Blazed battlement and pinnet high, |