Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again

Full charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main :

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred

Shall plough the wave no more.

COWPER.

I

THE WRECK

ALL night the booming minute gun
Had pealed along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun

Looked o'er the tide-worn steep.
A bark from India's coral strand,
Before the raging blast,

Had vailed her topsails to the sand,
And bowed her noble mast.

The queenly ship!-Brave hearts had striven, And true ones died with her!

We saw her mighty cable riven,

Like floating gossamer.

We saw her proud flag struck that morn,

A star once o'er the seas-

Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn—
And sadder things than these!

We saw her treasures cast away,-
The rocks with pearls were sown,
And strangely sad, the ruby's ray
Flashed out o'er fretted stone.

And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er,
Like ashes by a breeze;

And gorgeous robes.-But, oh! that shore
Had sadder things than these!

We saw the strong man still and low,

A crushed reed thrown aside;

Yet by that rigid lip and brow,
Not without strife he died.

And near him on the seaweed lay—
(Till then we had not wept)-
But well our gushing hearts might say,
That there a mother slept!

For her pale arms a babe had prest,
With such a wreathing grasp,

Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast,

Yet not undone the clasp.

Her very tresses had been flung
To wrap the fair child's form,

Where still their wet long streamers hung,
All tangled by the storm.

And beautiful, midst that wild scene,
Gleamed up the boy's dead face,
Like slumber's, trustingly serene,
In melancholy grace.

Deep in her bosom lay his head,
With half-shut violet eye-
He had known little of her dread, ⚫
Nought of her agony !

Oh! human love, whose yearning heart
Through all things vainly true,

So stamps upon thy mortal part

Its passionate adieu—

Surely thou hast another lot,

There is some home for thee,

Where thou shalt rest, remembering not

The moaning of the sea!

FELICIA HEMANS.

THE LIGHTHOUSE.

THE rocky ledge runs far into the sea,
And on its outer point, some miles away,
The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,
A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day.

Even at this distance I can see the tides,
Upheaving, break unheard along its base-
A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides
In the white lip and tremor of the face.

And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright,
Through the deep purple of the twilight air,
Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light
With strange, unearthly splendour in its glare!
Not one alone; from each projecting cape
And perilous reef along the ocean's verge,
Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape,

Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge.
Like the great giant Christopher, it stands
Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave,
Wading far out among the rocks and sands,
The night-o'ertaken mariner to save.

And the great ships sail outward and return, Bending and bowling o'er the billowy swell; And, ever joyful as they see it burn,

They wave their silent welcomes and farewells. They come forth from the darkness, and their sails Gleam for a moment only in the blaze;

And eager faces, which the light unveils,

Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze.

The mariner remembers, when a child,

On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink;
And when, returning from adventures wild,
He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink.

Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same
Year after year, through all the silent night,
Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame,
Shines on that inextinguishable light!

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp

The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace; It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp, And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. The startled waves leap over it; the storm Smites it with all the scourges of the rain, And steadily against its solid form

Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din Of wings and winds and solitary cries, Blinded and maddened by the light within, Dashes him against the glare, and dies.

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock,
Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove,
It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock,
But hails the mariner with words of love.

"Sail on!" it says, "sail on, ye stately ships!
And with your floating bridge the ocean span;
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse,
Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!
LONGFELLOW.

FORGING THE ANCHOR.1

THE Windlass strains the tackle chains; the black mound heaves below,

And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every

throe:

It rises, roars, rends all outright-O Vulcan, what a glow!

'Tis blinding white; 'tis blasting bright-the high sun shines not so!

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show;

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row

Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe:

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow

66

Sinks on the anvil; while the ring of faces fiery grow'Hurrah!" they shout. "Leap out, leap out!" Bang, bang! the sledges go.

Hurrah! The jetted lightnings are hissing high and low;

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow. The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders

strow

The ground about; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow;

1 Although there is no breath, nor even a glimpse of the sea in these lines, I venture to think that the subject is sufficient excuse for their inclusion here; especially as I have been unable to find any really worthy song on the forging of an anchor.

And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "Ho!"

In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last;
A shapely one he is and strong as e'er from cat was

cast.

1

O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!

S. FERGUSON.

1 The cathead, from which the anchor hangs at a vessel's bow, when ready to be cast.