A JOLLY comrade in the port, a fearless mate at sea;
When I forget thee, to my hand false may the cutlass be!
And may my gallant battle-flag be stricken down in shame,
If, when the social can goes round, I fail to pledge thy name!
Up, up, my lads!-his memory!-we'll give it with a cheer,-
Ned Bolton, the commander of the Black Snake privateer!
Poor Ned! he had a heart of steel, with neither flaw nor speck;
Firm as a rock, in strife or storm, he stood the quarter-deck;
He was, I trow, a welcome man to many an Indian dame,
And Spanish planters cross'd themselves at whisper of his name;
But now, Jamaica girls may weep-rich Dons securely smile-
His bark will take no prize again, nor e'er touch Indian isle!
'S blood! 'twas a sorry fate he met on his own mother-wave,—
The foe far off, the storm asleep, and yet to find a grave!
With store of the Peruvian gold, and spirit of the cane,
No need would he have had to cruise in tropic climes again:
But some are born to sink at sea, and some to hang on shore,
And Fortune cried, God speed! at last, and welcomed Ned no more.
'Twas off the coast of Mexico-the tale is bitter brief-
The Black Snake, under press of sail, stuck fast upon a reef;
Upon a cutting coral-reef-scarce a good league from land-
But hundreds, both of horse and foot, were ranged upon the strand:
His boats were lost before Cape Horn; and, with an old canoe,
Even had he number'd ten for one, what could Ned Bolton do?
Six days and nights, the vessel lay upon the coral-reef,
Nor favouring gale, nor friendly flag, brought prospect of relief;
For a land-breeze, the wild one prayed, who never prayed before,
And when it came not at his call, he bit his lip, and swore:
The Spaniards shouted from the beach, but did not venture near,
Too well they knew the mettle of the daring privateer!
A calm!-a calm!-a hopeless calm!-the red sun, burning high,
Glared blisteringly and wearily, in a transparent sky;
The grog went round the gasping crew, and loudly rose the song,
The only pastime at an hour when rest seem'd far too long.
So boisterously they took their rouse, upon the crowded deck,
They look'd like men who had escaped, not fear'd, a sudden wreck.
Up sprung the breeze the seventh day-away! away! to sea
Drifted the bark, with riven planks, over the waters free;
Their battle-flag, these rovers bold then hoisted topmast high,
And to the swarthy foe sent back a fierce-defying cry. [roar.
"One last broadside!" Ned Bolton cried-deep boom'd the cannon's
And echo's hollow growl returned an answer from the shore.
The thundering gun, the broken song, the mad tumultuous cheer,
Ceased not, so long as ocean spared, the shatter'd privateer:
I saw her-I-she shot by me, like lightning, in the gale;
We strove to save, we tack'd, and fast we slacken'd all our sail—
I knew the wave of Ned's right hand-farewell!-you strive in vain!
And he, or one of his ship's crew, ne'er enter'd port again!
Ar last, O my Mother! thou sleepest;
At last, thy poor heart is still;
No longer, dear Mother! thou keepest
A watch in a world of ill.
Though I feel of all love forsaken,
When thine is no longer near;
Yet I thank my God, who hath taken
Thee hence, and I shed no tear.
I smile with a sorrowful gladness,
While I think, thou never more
Shalt drink from the black cup of sadness,
Which, through thy whole life, ran o'er.
When a hard lot pressed severest,
Oh little had been my care,
Had I known that thou, best and dearest!
Didst a lighter portion share.
But as there ne'er was another
On earth more gentle and kind,
So none, my own dove-hearted Mother!
Did a heavier burthen find.
Yet it woke no voice of complaining,
Nor changed thy passionless air,
At a time, when to image thy paining,
Was more than I well could bear.
There needed no whisper of duty
To summon me to thy side;
To dwell near thy soul-stilling beauty,
Was a rapture and a pride.
Often now, when his peace is riven
With visions of shame and fear,
The thought that thou'rt happy in heaven,
Doth thy son's dark bosom cheer.
A thousand would call the spot dreary
Where thou takest a long repose;
But a rude couch is sweet to the weary,
And the frame that suffering knows.
I never rejoiced more sincerely
Than at thy funeral hour;
Assured, that the one I loved dearly,
Was beyond affliction's power.
The Dream of Eugene Aram.
"TWAS in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool,
And four and twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school:
There were some that ran, and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool.
Away they sped with gamesome minds,
And souls untouch'd by sin;
To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran,—
Turning to mirth all things of earth,
As only boyhood can;
But the Usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man!
His hat was off, his vest apart,
To catch heaven's blessed breeze;
For a burning thought was in his brow,
And his bosom ill at ease;
So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read
The book between his knees!
Leaf after leaf, he turn'd it o'er,
Nor ever glanced aside;
For the peace of his soul he read that book
In the golden eventide:
Much study had made him very lean,
And pale, and leaden-eyed.
At last he shut the ponderous tome,
With a fast and fervent grasp
He strain'd the dusky covers close,
And fix'd the brazen hasp:
Oh God! could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp mind,.
Then, leaping on his feet upright,
Some moody turns he took,-
Now up the mead, then down the mead,
And past a shady nook,-
And, lo! he saw a little boy
That pored upon a book!
"My gentle lad, what is't you read-
Romance, or fairy fable?
Or is it some historic page,
Of kings and crowns unstable?" The young boy gave an upward glance,"It is The Death of Abel.'
The Usher took six hasty strides,
As smit with sudden pain,-
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again;
And down he sat beside the lad,
And talk'd with him of Cain;
And, long since then, of bloody men,
Whose deeds tradition saves;
Of lonely folk cut off unseen,
And hid in sudden graves;
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,
And murders done in caves;
And how the sprites of injured men
Shriek upward from the sod,-
Aye, how the ghostly hand will point
To show the burial clod;
And unknown facts of guilty acts
Are seen in dreams from God!
He told how murderers walk the earth
Beneath the curse of Cain,—
With crimson clouds before their eyes,
And flames about their brain:
For blood has left upon their souls
Its everlasting stain!
And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth,
Their pangs must be extreme,
Wo, wo, unutterable wo—
Who spill life's sacred stream!
For why? Methought, last night, I wrought A murder in a dream!
The Dream of Eugene Aram.
"Twas in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool,
And four and twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school:
There were some that ran, and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool.
Away they sped with gamesome minds,
And souls untouch'd by sin;
To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran,-
Turning to mirth all things of earth,
As only boyhood can;
But the Usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man!
His hat was off, his vest apart,
To catch heaven's blessed breeze;
For a burning thought was in his brow,
And his bosom ill at ease;
So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read
The book between his knees!
Leaf after leaf, he turn'd it o'er,
Nor ever glanced aside;
For the peace of his soul he read that book
In the golden eventide:
Much study had made him very lean,
And pale, and leaden-eyed.
At last he shut the ponderous tome,
With a fast and fervent grasp
He strain'd the dusky covers close,
And fix'd the brazen hasp:
Oh God! could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp!"
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