A SHIP STRIKING ON A REEF.

The burying waters close around their head,
They sink for ever, numbered with the dead!
Those who remain the weather shrouds embrace,
Nor longer mourn their lost companions' case;
Transfixed with terror at the approaching doom,
Self-pity in their breasts alone has room.

It comes! the dire catastrophe draws near, Lashed furious on by Destiny severe.

The ship hangs hovering on the verge of death, Hell yawns, rocks rise, and breakers roar beneath!

In vain the cords and axes are prepared,
For every wave now smites the quivering yard;
High o'er the ship they throw a dreadful shade,
Then on her burst in terrible cascade;
Across the foundered deck o'erwhelming roar,
And foaming, swelling, bound upon the shore.
Swift up the mounting billow now she flies,
Her shattered top half-buried in the skies;
Borne o'er a latent reef the hull impends,
Then thundering on the marble crags descends;
Her ponderous bulk the dire concussion feels,
And o'er upheaving surges wounded reels.
Again she plunges! hark! a second shock
Bilges the splitting vessel on the rock;
Down on the vale of Death, with dismal cries,
The fated victims shuddering cast their eyes
In wild despair; while yet another stroke,
With strong convulsion rends the solid oak.

Ah, Heaven!-behold her crashing ribs divide!
She loosens, parts, and spreads in ruin o'er the tide.

SAMUEL BISHOP.

1731-1795.

TO HIS WIFE ON THE FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY

OF HER WEDDING-DAY, WITH A KNIFE.

A KNIFE, dear girl, cuts love, they say-
Mere modish love perhaps it may;
For any tool of any kind

Can separate what was never joined.
The knife that cuts our love in two
Will have much tougher work to do:
Must cut your softness, worth, and spirit,
Down to the vulgar size of merit;
To level yours with common taste,
Must cut a world of sense to waste;
And from your single beauty's store,
Clip what would dizen out a score.
The self-same blade from me must sever
Sensation, judgment, sight for ever!
All memory of endearments past,
All hope of comforts long to last,
All that makes fourteen years with you

A summer and a short one too:

All that affection feels and fears,

When hours, without you, seemed like years.
Till that be done, and I'd as soon
Believe this knife will clip the moon,-
Accept my present undeterred,
And leave their proverbs to the herd.
If in a kiss delicious treat!
Your lips acknowledge the receipt;
Love, fond of such substantial fare,
And proud to play the glutton there,
All thoughts of cutting will disdain,
Save only" cut and come again."

TO HIS WIFE.

TO HIS WIFE ON THE SIXTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF

HER WEDDING-DAY, WITH A RING.

THEE, Mary, with this ring I wed,"
So sixteen years ago I said—-
Behold another ring! "For what?"
To wed thee o'er again-why not?

With the first ring I married youth,
Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth:
Taste long admired, sense long revered,
And all my Molly then appeared.

If she, by merit since disclosed,
Prove twice the woman I supposed,
I plead that double merit now,
To justify a double vow.

Here then to-day, with faith as sure,
With ardour as intense and pure,
As when amidst the rites divine

I took thy troth, and plighted mine,
To thee, sweet girl, my second ring,
A token and a pledge I bring;
With this I wed, till death us part,
Thy riper virtues to my heart;
These virtues, which before untried,
The wife has added to the bride;
Those virtues, whose progressive claim,
Endearing wedlock's very name,

My soul enjoys, my song approves,
For conscience' sake as well as love's.

For why? They teach me hour by hour
Honour's high thought, affection's power,
Discretion's deed, sound judgment's sentence;
And teach me all things-but repentance.

WILLIAM COWPER.

1731-1800.

THE LETTER-BAG.

HARK! 'tis the twanging horn!

O'er yonder bridge,

That with its wearisome but needful length

Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,

He comes, the herald of a noisy world,

With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks,
News from all nations lumbering at his back.
True to his charge the close-packed load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern

Is to conduct it to the destined inn,
And having dropped the expected bag-pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some,
To him indifferent whether grief or joy.
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet
With tears that trickled down the writer's cheeks
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,

THE LETTER-BAG.

Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,
Or nymphs responsive, equally affect

His horse and him, unconscious of them all.

But oh the important budget! ushered in
With such heart-shaking music, who can say
What are its tidings? have our troops awaked?
Or do they still, as if with opium drugged,
Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?
Is India free? and does she wear her plumed
And jewelled turban with a smile of peace,
Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh-I long to know them all;
I burn to set the imprisoned wranglers free,
And give them voice and utterance once again.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
Not such his evening, who with shining face
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeezed

And bored, with elbow points through both his sides,
Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage;

Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb,
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath

Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage,

Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.

This folio of four pages, happy work!

Which not even critics criticise; that holds

Inquisitive attention while I read,

Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,