Hurrah! hurrah! the wind is up-it bloweth fresh and free, And every cord, instinct with life, pipes loud its fearless. glee;

Big swell the bosom'd sails with joy, and they madly kiss the spray,

As proudly, through the foaming surge, the Sea-King bears away!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

[From Love, and Home, and Native Land.]

'HEN o'er the silent deep we rove,

WHEN

More fondly then our thoughts will stray

To those we leave —to those we love,

Whose prayers pursue our wat'ry way.
When in the lonely midnight hour

The sailor takes his watchful stand,
His heart then feels the holiest power
Of love, and home, and native land.

SAMUEL LOVER.

On a Naval Officer buried in the Atlantic.

THERE is, in the wide, lone sea,

A spot unmarked, but holy,

For there the gallant and the free

In his ocean bed lies lowly.

Down, down, beneath the deep,

That oft to triumph bore him,
He sleeps a sound and pleasant sleep,
With the salt waves washing o'er him.

He sleeps serene, and safe

From tempest or from billow;

Where the storms that high above him chafe
Scarce rock his peaceful pillow.

The sea and him in death

They did not dare to sever;

It was his home while he had breath, 'Tis now his home for ever.

Sleep on thou mighty dead!

A glorious tomb they've found thee; The broad blue sky above thee spread, The boundless waters round thee.

No vulgar foot treads here,

No hand profane shall move thee, But gallant fleets shall proudly steer, And warriors shout, above thee.

And when the last trump shall sound

And tombs are asunder riven,

Like the morning sun from the wave thou'lt bound,

To rise and shine in heaven.

HENRY FRANCIS LYTE.

The Sea.

THE Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!

The blue, the fresh, the ever free!

Without a mark, without a bound,

It runneth the earth's wide regions round;
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;
Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the Sea! I'm on the Sea!

I am where I would ever be !

With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go;

If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love (oh, how I love) to ride
On the fierce foaming, bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon.
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the south-west blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I lov'd the great Sea more and more,
And backwards flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest-
And a mother she was and is to me,
For I was born on the open Sea!

The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;

And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild,

As welcomed to life the Ocean child!

I've lived since then, in calm and strife,

Full fifty summers a sailor's life,

With wealth to spend and a power to range,
But never have sought nor sighed for change;
And Death, whenever he comes to me,

Shall come on the wild unbounded Sea!

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER.

A

The Stormy Petrel.

THOUSAND miles from land are we,

Tossing about on the roaring sea;

From billow to bounding billow cast,

Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast:
The sails are scattered abroad like weeds;
The strong masts shake, like quivering reeds;
The mighty cables and iron chains,

The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,

They strain, and they crack; and hearts like stone Their natural, hard, proud strength disown.

Up and down! up and down!

From the base of the wave to the billow's crown

And amidst the flashing and feathery foam,
The Stormy Petrel finds a home-

A home, if such a place may be,

For her who lives on the wide, wide sea,
On the craggy ice, in the frozen air,

And only seeketh her rocky lair

To warm her young, and to teach them spring
At once o'er the wave on their stormy wing!

O'er the Deep! o'er the Deep!

Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish sleep, Outflying the blast and the driving rain,

The Petrel telleth her tale-in vain ;

For the mariner curseth the warning bird,
Who bringeth him news of the storms unheard!
-Ah! thus does the prophet, of good or ill,
Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still!
Yet he ne'er falters :- so, Petrel, spring
Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing!

B. W. PROCTER.

The Sea-in Calm.

LOOK what immortal floods the sunset pours

Upon us-Mark! how still (as though in dreams Bound) the once wild and terrible Ocean seems! How silent are the winds! no billow roars;

But all is tranquil as Elysian shores !