While those around would hear and weep

The fearful judgment of the deep.

"Come to thy God in time!"

He read his native chime :

Youth, manhood, old age past,
His bell rung out at last.

Still when the storm of Bottreaux's waves
Is wakening in his weedy caves,

Those bells, that sullen surges hide,
Peal their deep notes beneath the tide ;
"Come to thy God in time!"
Thus saith the ocean chime:

Storm, billow, whirlwind past,

"Come to thy God at last!"

REV. R. HAWKER.

DEADMAN'S ISLAND.

you,

SEE beneath yon

cloud so dark,

Fast gliding along a gloomy bark?

Her sails are full though the wind is still,
And there blows not a breath her sails to fill !

Say, what doth that vessel of darkness bear?
The silent calm of the grave is there,
Save now and again a death-knell rung,

And the flap of the sails with night-fog hung.

There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore

Of cold and pitiless Labrador;

Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost,
Full many a mariner's bones are tost.

Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck,
And the dim blue fire that lights her deck,
Doth play on as pale and livid a crew
As ever yet drank the churchyard dew.

To Deadman's Isle, in the eye of the blast,
To Deadman's Isle, she speeds her fast;
By skeleton shapes her sails are furl'd,

And the hand that steers is not of this world!

Oh! hurry thee on-oh! hurry thee on,
Thou terrible bark, ere the night be gone,
Nor let morning look on so foul a sight
As would blanch for ever her rosy light!

THOMAS MOORE.

THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR.

"SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armour drest,

Comest to daunt me !

There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore
Of cold and pitiless Labrador;

Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost,
Full many a mariner's bones are tost.

Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck,
And the dim blue fire that lights her deck,
Doth play on as pale and livid a crew
As ever yet drank the churchyard dew.

To Deadman's Isle, in the eye of the blast,
To Deadman's Isle, she speeds her fast;
By skeleton shapes her sails are furl'd,

And the hand that steers is not of this world!

Oh! hurry thee on-oh! hurry thee on,
Thou terrible bark, ere the night be gone,
Nor let morning look on so foul a sight
As would blanch for ever her rosy light!

THOMAS MOORE.

THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR.

"SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest!

Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armour drest,

Comest to daunt me !

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