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When twenty boats were crush'd among

The rocks of Norman's Woe. "Twas dark then; 'tis light now, And the sails are leaning low.

In dreams, I pull the sea-weed o'er,
And find a face not his,
And hope another tide will be
More pitying than this;
The wind turns, the tide turns-
They take what hope there is.

My life goes on as thine would go,
With all its sweetness spill'd;
My God, why should one heart of two
Beat on, when one is still'd?
Though heart-wreck, or home-wreck,
Thy happy sparrows build.

Though boats go down, men build anew,
Whatever winds may blow;

If blight be in the wheat one year,

We trust again and sow, Though grief comes and changes

The sunshine into snow.

Some have their dead, where, sweet and soon

The summers bloom and go;

The sea withholds my dead-I walk

The bar when tides are low,

And wonder the grave-grass
Can have the heart to grow!

Flow on, O unconsenting sea!
And keep my dead below;

Though night-O utter night!-my soul

Delude thee long, I know,

Or Life comes, or Death comes,

God leads the eternal flow.

THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.

WHAT hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells,
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious Main?
-Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells,
Bright things which gleam unreck'd of, and in vain.
-Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy Sea!

We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the Depths have more! What wealth untold Far down, and shining through their stillness lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,

Won from ten thousand royal argosies.

-Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful Main! Earth claims not these again!

Yet more, the Depths have more! Thy waves have roll'd
Above the cities of a world gone by!

Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old,
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry!

-Dash o'er them, Ocean! in thy scornful play-
Man yields them to decay!

Yet more! the Billows and the Depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle-thunders will not break their rest:
-Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave-
Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely! those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long,
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown-
But all is not thine own!

To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown;
-Yet must thou hear a voice-Restore the Dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee-
Restore the Dead, thou Sea!

MRS HEMANS.

TIMES AND SEASONS.

THE lark has sung his carol in the sky;
The bees have humm'd their noontide lullaby;
Still in the vale the village-bells ring round,
Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound;
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,

Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer,
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.

A few short years—and then these sounds shall hail
The day again, and gladness fill the vale;
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran:

Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin:
The ale, now brew'd in floods of amber shine:

And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze,
'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days,
The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled,
""Twas on these knees he sat so oft and smiled."

And soon again shall music swell the breeze:
Soon issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees
Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung,
And violets scatter'd round; and old and young,
In every cottage-porch with garlands green,
Stand still to gaze, and gazing bless the scene;
While, her dark eyes declining, by his side
Moves in her virgin veil the gentle bride.

And once, alas! nor in a distant hour,
Another voice shall come from yonder tower:
When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen,
And weepings heard where only joy has been;
When by his children borne, and from his door
Slowly departing to return no more,

He rests in holy earth with them that went before.
SAMUEL ROGERS.

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now who be ye would cross Lochgoil,
This dark and stormy water?"
"Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together; For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

“His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover!"

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief,-I'm ready :-
It is not for your silver bright;
But for your winsome lady :

"And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry ;

So though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armèd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

"Oh haste thee, haste !" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father."

G

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