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THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. Open one point on the weather bow
Is the lighthouse tall on Fire Island head; What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells? There 's a shade of doubt on the captaiu's brow,
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ! - And the pilot watches the heaving lead.
To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze,
Till the muttered order of FULL AND BY!” We ask not such from thee.
Is suddenly changed to “FULL FOR STAYS !” Yet more, the depths have more ! — what wealth The ship bends lower before the breeze, untold,
As her broadside fair to the blast she lays ; Far down, and shining through their stillness And she swifter springs to the rising seas lies!
As the pilot calls “ STAND BY FOR STAYS !" Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,
Won from ten thousand royal argosies ! It is silence all, as each in his place, Sweepo'erthy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main ! With the gathered coils in his hardened hands, Earth claims not these again.
By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace,
Waiting the watchword impatient stands. Yet more, the depths have more ! — thy waves have rolled
And the light on Fire Island head draws near, Above the cities of a world gone by !
As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,
From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear, Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.
With the welcome call of “READY ! ABOUT!" Dash o'er them, Ocean, in thy scornful play! Man yields them to decay.
No time to spare ! it is touch and go,
And the captain growls “DOWN HELM ! HARD Yet more, the billows and the depths have more !
DOWN !” High heartsand brave are gathered to thy breast! As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw, They hear not now the booming waters roar,
While heaven grows black with the stormThe battle-thunders will not break their rest.
cloud's frown. Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! Give back the true and brave !
High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray,
As we meet the shock of the plunging sea ; Give back the lost and lovely!- those for whom And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay, The place was kept at board and hearth so long!
As I answer, “AY, AY, SIR! HARD A LEE!” The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
With the swerving leap of a startled steed
The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind,
And the headland white we have left behind. To thee the love of woman bath gone down,
The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
And belly and tug at the groaning cleats ; O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery The spanker slaps and the mainsail flaps, crown ;
And thunders the order, “TacKS AND SHEETS!"
Hisses the rain of the rushing squall ;
And now is the moment for “MAINSAIL,
1 By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung ; The braces are taut and the lithe boom quivers, She holds her way, and I look with joy And the waves with the coming squall-cloud For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks
MRS. CELIA THAXTER.
“LET GO, AND VAUL!” 't is the last command, LA WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.
And the head-sails fill to the blast once more; Astern and to leeward lies the land,
A wet sheet and a flowing sea, With its breakers white on the shingly shore. A wind that follows fast,
And fills the What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall?
white and rustling sail, I steady the helm for the open sea ;
And bends the gallant mast, The first-mate clamors, BEĻAY THERE, ALL !”
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free, And the captain's breath once more comes free.
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.
O for a soft and gentle wind !
But give to me the snoring breeze
And white waves heaving high,
The good ship tight and free ;
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon hornéd moon, The listening winds received this song: “What should we do but sing His praise
And lightning in yon cloud ; That led us through the watery maze
And hark the music, mariners ! Where he the huge seą monsters wracks,
The wind is piping loud,
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free;
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.
SONG OF THE ROVER.
O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless and our souls as free, Jewels more rich than Ormus shows :
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
Survey our empire, and behold our home! And throws the melons at our feet ;
These are our realms, no limits to their stay,But apples, plants of such a price,
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. No tree could ever bear them twice.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range With cedars chosen by his hand
From toil to rest, and joy in every change. From Lebanon he stores the land ;
O, who can tell ? not thou, luxurious slave! And makes the hollow seas that roar
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave; Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease! He cast (of which we rather boast)
Whom slumber soothes not, - pleasure cannot The gospel's pearl upon our coast;
please. And in these rocks for us did frame
O, who can tell save he whose heart hath tried, A temple where to sound his name.
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, O let our voice his praise exalt
The exulting sense, the pulse's maddening play, Till it arrive at heaven's vault,
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way? Which then perhaps rebounding may
That for itself can woo the approaching fight, Echo beyond the Mexique bay!”
And turn what some deem danger to delight; Thus sung they in the English boat
That seeks what cravens shun with more than A holy and a cheerful note ;
zeal, And all the way, to guide their chime,
And where the feebler faint can only feel —
Feel to the rising boson's inmost core,
No dread of death if with us die our foes - Who goes there ? Stranger, quickly tell ;
And while his thoughts oft homewards veer,
HEAVING OF THE LEAD.
For England when with favoring gale
Our gallant ship up channel steered, When those who win at length divide the prey,
And, scudding under casy sail, And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow,
The high blue western land appeared ;
To heave the lead the seaman sprung, How had the brave who fell exulted now!
And to the pilot cheerly sung,
“By the deep-nine !"
And bearing up to gain the port,
Some well-known object kept in view,
Or beacon to the vessel true ;
“ By the mark seven!”
Just in thy mould and beauteous in thy form,
Lady of mine,
For we are thine.
“My brigantine !
JAMES FENIMORE COOPEK.
THE WHITE SQUALL.
IN THE MEDITERRANEAN.
DESERTED by the waning moon,
On deck, beneath the awning,
Ere yet the sun arose ·
And the ship, and all the ocean,
Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered.
Allah! Illah !
Then all the fleas in Jewry
And above the funnel's roaring,
With universal nose.
The pleasure of a doze,
So I lay, and wondered why light
That shot across the deck ;
That whirled from the chimney neck.
The hazy sky to speck.
Jews black and brown and gray.
With terror it would seize ye,
Who did naught but scratch and pray.
Their swarming fleas away.
To starboarel Turks and Greeks were,
Their pipes did puff away ;
In pretty, pleasant play.
of those small heathens gay.
And so the hours kept tolling ;
Before the break of day,
When a squall, upon a sudden,
But his little daughter whispered,
As she took his icy hand, “Is n't God upon the ocean
Just the same as on the land ?"
Then we kissed the little maiden,
And we spoke in better chcer,
JAMES T. FIELDS.
This was the white squall famous,
When in the storm on Albion's coast, The night-watch guards his wary post,
From thoughts of danger free, He marks some vessel's dusky form, And hears, amid the howling storm,
The minute-gun at sea.
Swift on the shore a hardy few
And dare the dangerous wave;
For they go the crew to save.
And when, its force expended, The harmless storm was ended, And as the sunrise splendid
Came blushing o'er the sca, I thought, as day was breaking, My little girls were waking, And smiling, and making
A prayer at home for me.
But, 0, what rapture fills each breast
The minute-gun at sea.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
R. S. SHARPE,