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Health, too, and Strength, tugged at the oar,
Drank draughts of deep delight;
To guide the boat aright:-
To steer which way he chose :
And sobbing south winds rose.
Though none knew how he went.
Backward her glance still bentTo where, upon the distant sea, Bursting the storm's dark canopy, Light from a sun none now could see,
Still touched the whirling wave.
Is silent, stern, and grave.
And day is almost spent.
AUTHOR OF RICHELIEU.
THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.
COME, see the Dolphin's Anchor forged; 'tis a white heat now; The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's
brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound; And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare; Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass
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-0 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 Sinks on the anvil -all about the 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 around; at every bound the sweltering fountains
flow: And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant
Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!
And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky
high, Then moves his head, as though he said, “ Fear nothing-here
am I!” Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time, Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime! But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burden be, The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal craftsmen we; Strike, in strike in, the sparks begin to dull their rustling red! Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be
sped; Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammook at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the Yeo-heave-o, and the Heave-away, and the sighing
seaman's cheer; When weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and
home, And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last, A shapely one he is and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. A trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green
O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou?
isles' He lies, a lubber anchorage, for sudden shallowed miles; Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls, Meanwhile to swing, a buffeting the far astonished shoals Of his back-browsing ocean calves; or haply in a cove, Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undinė's love, To find the long-haired mermaidens; or, hard by icy lands, To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. O broad-armed Fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal I thine? The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line;
And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,
band, Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee
bend, With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient
friend Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps
round thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride, thou'dst leap within
the sea! Give honour to their memories who left the pleasant strand, To shed their blood so freely for the love of FatherlandWho left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing waveOh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honour him for their memory, whose bones he goes among !
THE SONG OF THE BREEZE.
I have hushed the babe in its cradled rest,
Most writers like on something to dilate,
And some on anything would spend their time; But everything is now in such a state
That “nothing" best fits my humble chime. Hail! then, the subject; and all hail! the bard
“Who can write well on nothing!”-Few beside Would claim this meed! but yet with due regard
To others' rights, my chaplet I'll divide ! What art thou, Nothing?_Nothing but a name!
Yet so connected with all earthly ties, That Glory, Reputation, Pleasure, Fame,
All end in thee~from whom they took their rise! What's Friendship? Nothing !-Love? “an emptier sound !:'
Honour?-Wealth?~Splendour?- Dignity?--and Pride? I asked the tombs-(with solemn sculptures crowned)
“Nothing!”—a hollow moan from each replied. Yet much depends on Nothing !-Nothing known,
Nothing is wanted; and the vacant breast, Where Ignorance erects his leaden throne,
Asks Nothing to secure his placid rest!