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At length the wished-for morrow

Broke through the hazy sky, Absorbed in silent sorrow,

Each heaved a bitter sigh ; The dismal wreck to view

Struck horror to the crew, As she lay, on that day,

In the Bay of Biscay, 0 ! Her yielding timbers sever,

Her pitchy seams are rent, When Heaven, all bounteous ever,

Its boundless mercy sent, A sail in sight appears ;

We hail her with three cheers; Now we sail, with the gale,

From the Bay of Biscay, 0 !

ANDREW CHERRY.

THE STORM.

CEASE, rude Boreas, blustering railer !

List, ye landsmen, all to me, Messmates, hear a brother sailor

Sing the dangers of the sea ; From bounding billows, first in motion,

When the distant whirlwinds rise, To the tempest-troubled ocean,

Where the seas contend with skies.

Hark! the boatswain hoarsely bawling,

By topsail sheets and halyards stand ! Down top-gallants quick be hauling !

Down your stay-sails, hand, boys, hand ! Now it freshens, set the braces,

Quick the topsail sheets let go ;
Luul, boys, luff ! don't make wry faces,

Up your topsails nimbly clew.
Round us roars the tempest louder,

Think what fear our minds inthralls ! Harder yet, it yet blows harder,

Now again the boatswain calls.

The topsail yard point to the wind, boys,

See all clear to reef each course ; Let the fore sheet go, don't mind, boys,

Though the weather should be worse. Fore and aft the sprit-sail yard get,

Recf the mizzen, see all clear ; Hands up! each preventive brace set !

Man the fore yard, cheer, lads, cheer ! Now the dreadful thunder 's roaring

Peal on peal contending clash,
On our heads fierce rain falls pouring,

In our eyes blue lightnings flash.

One wide water all around us,

All above us one black sky;
Different deaths at once surround us :

Hark! what means that dreadful cry?

The foremast 's gone, cries every tongue out,

O'er the lee twelve feet 'bove deck ;
A leak beneath the chest-tree's sprung out,

Call all hands to clear the wreck.

Quick the lanyards cut to pieces ;

Come, my hearts, be stout and bold;
Plumb the well, – the leak increases,

Four feet water in the hold !

While o'er the ship wild waves are beating,

We our wives and children mourn ;
Alas! from hence there 's no retreating,

Alas! to them there's no return !

Still the leak is gaining on us !

Both chain-pumps are choked below :
Heaven have mercy here upon us !

For only that can save us now.

O'er the lee-beam is the land, boys,

Let the guns o'erboard be thrown;
To the pumps call every hand, boys,

See ! our mizzer-mast is gone.

fast;

The leak we've found, it cannot pour

We've lighted her a foot or more ;
Up and rig a jury foremast,

She rights ! she rights, boys! we're off shore.

GEORGE ALEXANDER STEVENS.

THE INCHCAPE ROCK.

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was still as she might be ;
Her sails from heaven received no motion ;
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flowed over the Inchcape rock ;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape bell.

The holy abbot of Aberbrothok
Had floated that bell on the Inchcape rock ;
On the waves of the storm it floated and swung,
And louder and louder its warning rung.

When the rock was hid by the tempest's swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell ;
And then they knew the perilous rock,
And blessed the priest of Aberbrothok.

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The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And to the Inchcape rock they go ;

And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,

And they looked at the squall, and they looked And cut the warning bell from the float.

at the shower,

And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and Down sank the bell with a gurgling sound ;

brown ; The bubbles rose, and burst around. Quoth Sir Ralph, “The next who comes to the But men must work, and women must weep,

Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, rock

And the harbor bar be moaning.
Will not bless the priest of Aberbrothok.”
Sir Ralph, the rover, sailed away,

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands He scoured the seas for many a day;

In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And now, grown rich with plundered store, And the women are watching and wringing their His steers his course to Scotland's shore.

hands,

For those who will never come back to the town; So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky

For men must work, and women must weep, They could not see the sun on high ;

And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, The wind had blown a gale all day ;

And good by to the bar and its moaning. At evening it háth died away.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

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deck ;

“0, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair, 'T is the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on A tress o' golden hair,

the sky! O’ drowned maiden's hair,

'T is the crashing of thunders, the groan of the Above the nets at sea ?

sphere ! Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, Among the stakes on Dee.”

He springs from his hammock, he flies to the They rowed her in across the rolling foam, – Amazement confronts him with images dire ; The cruel, crawling foam,

Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a The cruel, hungry foam,

wreck ; To her grave beside the sea ;

The masts fly in splinters; the shrouds are on But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home

fire. Across the sands o' Dee.

CHARLES KINGSLEY. Like mountains the billows tremendously swell;

In vain the lost wretch calls on merey to save;

Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, THE MARINER'S DREAM.

And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er

the wave! In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay ; His hammock swung loose at the sport of the O sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight! wind;

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of

bliss. But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. Where now is the picture that fancy touched

bright, He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers, Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed

And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn; kiss ? While memory stood sideways half covered with flowers,

O sailor-boy ! sailor-boy! never again And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.

Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay;

Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay.

And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ; Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.

Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge,

But the white foain of waves shall thy windingThe jessamine clambers in flowers o'er the thatch, sheet be, And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge!

the wall; All trembling with transport he raises the latch, On a bed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

laid,

Around thy white bones the red coral shall A father bends o'er him with looks of delight;

grow; His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made, tear;

And every part suit to thy mansion below. And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite With the lips of the maid whom his bosom Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, holds dear.

And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ;

Earth loses tlıy pattern forever and aye, The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast; O sailor-boy ! sailor-boy ! peace to thy soul ! Joy quickens his pulses, his hardships seem

o'er ; And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest,

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. “O God ! thou hast blest me, - I ask for no more."

WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED ; 1783. Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on

Toll for the brave, his eye ?

The brave that are no more! Ah! what is that sound which now 'larms on

All sunk beneath the wave, his ear?

Fast by their native shore.

WILLIAN DIMOND.

Eight hundred of the brave,

Whose courage well was tried. Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land-brecze shook the shrouds,

And she was overset ; Down went the Royal George,

With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave !

Brave Kempenfelt is gone ;
His last sca-fight is fought,

His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle ;

No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;

She ran upon no rock.

Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries,
The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes
In wild despair ; while yet another stroke,
With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak;
Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell
The lurking demons of destruction dwell,
At length asunder torn her frame divides,
And, crashing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides.

O, were it mine with tuneful Maro's art
To wake to sympathy the feeling heart;
Like him the smooth and mournful verse to dress
In all the pomp of exquisite distress,
Then too severely taught by cruel fate,
To share in all the perils I relate,
Then might I, with unrivalled strains deplore
The impervious horrors of a leewarl shore !

As o'er the surge the stooping mainmast hung,
Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung;
Some, struggling, on a broken crag were cast,
And there by oozy tangles grappled fast.
Awhile they bore the o'erwhelming billows' rage,
Unequal combat with their fate to wage ;
Till, all benumbed and feeble, they forego
Their slippery hold, and sink to shades below.
Some, from the main-yard-arm impetuous thrown
On marble ridges, die without a groan.
Three with Palemon on their skill depend,
And from the wreck on oars and rafts descend.
Now on the mountain wave on high they ride,
Then downward plunge beneath the involving

tide,
Till one, who seems in agony to strive,
The whirling breakers heave on shore alive;
The rest a speedier end of anguish knew,
And prest the stony beach, a lifeless crew!

His sword was in its sheath;

His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down

With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes !
And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again,
Full charged with England's thunder,

And plough the distant main.

WILLIAM FALCONER.

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YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

A NAVAL ODE.

THE SHIPWRECK.

In vain the cords and axes were prepared,
For now the auılacious seas insult the yard ;
High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade,
Aud o'er her burst in terrible cascade.
Uplifteil on the surge, to heaven she flies,
Her shattered top half-buried in the skies,
Then headlong plunging thunders on the ground;
Earth groans ! air trembles ! and the deeps re-

sound!
Her giant-bulk the dread concussion feels,
And quivering with the wound in torment reels.
So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes,
The bleeding bull beneath the murderer's blows.
Aguin she plunges ! hark ! a second shock
Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock :

I.
Ye mariners of England,
That guard our native seas ;
Whose slag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe !
And sweep through the decr,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

II.

The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave ;
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave.

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Then Denmark blessed our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose ;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,
As Death withdrew his shades from the day
While the sun looked smiling bright
O'er a wide and woful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

OF Nelson and the North
Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone ;
By cach gun the lighted brand,
In a bold, determined hand,
And the prince of all the land
Led them on.

II.
Like leviathans afloat,
Lay their bulwarks on the brine ;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line ;
It was ten of April morn by the chime :
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.

VII.
Now joy, Old England, raise !
For the tidlings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ;
And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !

VIII.
Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died
With the gallant good Riou :

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