Whilst gallants are carousing, In taverns on a row, Then we sweep o'er the deep When tempests are blown over, And greatest fears are past, In weather fair, and temperate air, We straight lie down to rest; But when the billows tumble, And waves do furious grow, Then we rouse, up we rouse, When the stormy winds do blow. If enemies oppose us, When England is at wars, We fear not wounds nor scars; When the stormy winds do blow. We are no cowardly shrinkers, But true Englishmen bred; We'll play our parts like valiant hearts, Where'er we come or go, When the stormy winds do blow. Then courage, all brave mariners, When we return in safety, With wages for our pains, The tapster and the vintner Will help to share our gains; We'll call for liquor roundly, And pay before we go; Then we'll roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow. MARTYN PARKER. Casabianca. THE boy stood on the burning deck Yet beautiful and bright he stood, A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though child-like form. The flames rolled on - he would not go That father, faint in death below, "Speak, father!" once again he cried, Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death And shouted but once more aloud, "My father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way. They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, They caught the flag on high, There came a burst of thunder sound With fragments strewed the sea! — FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. Hervé Riel. On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred Did the English fight the French -woe to For a prize to Plymouth Sound? And the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through France must undergo her fate!" the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the With the English fleet in view. 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great Close on him fled, great and small, Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick; Here's the English can and will!" Then the pilots of the place put out brisk, and leaped on board; "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the 'Formidable,' here, with her twelve-andeighty guns, Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside ? Now 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands, or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!" Then was called a council straight: Brief and bitter the debate. "Here's the English at our heels: would you have And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I And if one ship misbehave, Keel so much as grate the ground,— cries Hervé Riel. Not a minute more to wait. "Steer us in, then, small and great! Then said Damfreville, "My friend, Though I find the speaking hard; Take the helm, lead the line, save the squad- Faith, our sun was near eclipse! ron!" cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place! He is admiral, in brief. Still the north wind, by God's grace. See the noble fellow's face, As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage, as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock; Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past! All are harbored to the last! And, just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!” sure as fate, Up the English come,- too late! So the storm subsides to calm; They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Grève; Hearts that bled are stanched with balm, "Just our rupture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth, and glare askance As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content, and have! or my name's not Damfreville." Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Since on board the duty 's done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run? Since 'tis ask and have, I may; Since the others go ashore,- Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the That he asked, and that he got,- nothing more. Name and deed alike are lost; Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing-smack In memory of the man but for whom had gone to All that France saved from the fight whence How hope succeeds despair on each captain's coun- Go to Paris; rank on rank SONG OF THE GREEK POET. 411 Song of the Greek Poet. THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! Eternal summer gilds them yet; But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' Islands of the Blest. The mountains look on Marathon, I dreamed that Greece might still be free; A king sat on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations—all were his! He counted them at break of day— And when the sun set, where were they? And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now, The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine? 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear. Must we but weep o'er days more blest↑ Must we but blush? Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopyla! What! silent still and silent all? And answer, “ Let one living head, But one, arise-we come, we come!" "Tis but the living who are dumb. In vain - in vain; strike other chords; And shed the blood of Scio's vine! The nobler and the manlier one? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon's song divine; He served - but served Polycrates, A tyrant; but our masters then The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend! That tyrant was Miltiades! Oh that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Such as the Doric mothers bore; The only hope of courage dwells; But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad |