King Canute and his Nobles.

A maiden knight, to me is givenSuch hope, I know not fear;I yearn to breathe the airs of heavenThat often meet me here.I muse on joy that will not cease,Pure spaces clothed in living beams,Pure lilies of eternal peace,Whose odors haunt my dreams;And, stricken by an angel’s hand,This mortal armor that I wear,This weight and size, this heart and eyes,Are touched, are turned to finest air.The clouds are broken in the sky,And through the mountain-wallsA rolling organ-harmonySwells up, and shakes and falls.Then move the trees, the copses nod,Wings flutter, voices hover clear:“O just and faithful knight of God,Ride on! the prize is near.”So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;By bridge and ford, by park and pale,All armed I ride, whate’er betide,Until I find the holy Grail.

The clouds are broken in the sky,And through the mountain-wallsA rolling organ-harmonySwells up, and shakes and falls.Then move the trees, the copses nod,Wings flutter, voices hover clear:“O just and faithful knight of God,Ride on! the prize is near.”So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;By bridge and ford, by park and pale,All armed I ride, whate’er betide,Until I find the holy Grail.

CCANUTE was by his nobles taught to fancyThat, by a kind of royal necromancy,He had the power old Ocean to control.Down rushed the royal Dane upon the strand,And issued, like a Solomon, command,—poor soul!“Go back, ye waves, you blustering rogues,” quoth he;“Touch not your lord and master, Sea;For by my power almighty, if you do—”Then, staring vengeance, out he held a stick,Vowing to drive old Ocean to Old Nick,Should he even wet the latchet of his shoe.The sea retired,—the monarch fierce rushed on,And looked as if he’d drive him from the land;But Sea, not caring to be put upon,Made for a moment a bold stand.Not only made a stand did Mr. Ocean,But to his waves he made a motion,And bid them give the king a hearty trimming.The order seemed a deal the waves to tickle,For soon they put his Majesty in pickle,And set his royalties, like geese, a swimming.

“Go back, ye waves, you blustering rogues,” quoth he;“Touch not your lord and master, Sea;For by my power almighty, if you do—”Then, staring vengeance, out he held a stick,Vowing to drive old Ocean to Old Nick,Should he even wet the latchet of his shoe.

The sea retired,—the monarch fierce rushed on,And looked as if he’d drive him from the land;But Sea, not caring to be put upon,Made for a moment a bold stand.

Not only made a stand did Mr. Ocean,But to his waves he made a motion,And bid them give the king a hearty trimming.The order seemed a deal the waves to tickle,For soon they put his Majesty in pickle,And set his royalties, like geese, a swimming.

All hands aloft, with one tremendous roar,Sound did they make him wish himself on shore;His head and ears they most handsomely doused,—Just like a porpoise, with one general shout,The waves so tumbled the poor king about.No anabaptist e’er was half so soused.At length to land he crawled, a half-drowned thing,Indeed, more like a crab than like a king,And found his courtiers making rueful faces;But what said Canute to the lords and gentry,Who hailed him from the water, on his entry,All trembling for their lives or places?“My lords and gentlemen, by your advice,I’ve had with Mr. Sea a pretty bustle;My treatment from my foe, not overnice,Just made a jest for every shrimp and mussel.“A pretty trick for one of my dominion!My lords, I thank you for your great opinion.You’ll tell me, p’r’aps, I’ve only lost one gameAnd bid me try another,—for the rubber.Permit me to inform you all, with shame,That you’re a set of knaves and I’m a lubber.”

At length to land he crawled, a half-drowned thing,Indeed, more like a crab than like a king,And found his courtiers making rueful faces;But what said Canute to the lords and gentry,Who hailed him from the water, on his entry,All trembling for their lives or places?

“My lords and gentlemen, by your advice,I’ve had with Mr. Sea a pretty bustle;My treatment from my foe, not overnice,Just made a jest for every shrimp and mussel.

“A pretty trick for one of my dominion!My lords, I thank you for your great opinion.You’ll tell me, p’r’aps, I’ve only lost one gameAnd bid me try another,—for the rubber.Permit me to inform you all, with shame,That you’re a set of knaves and I’m a lubber.”

Outward Bound.

CCLINK—clink—clink! goes our windlass.“Ahoy!” “Haul in!” “Let go!”Yards braced and sails set,Flags uncurl and flow.Some eyes that watch from shore are wet,(How bright their welcome shone!)While, bending softly to the breeze,And rushing through the parted seas,Our gallant ship glides on.Though one has left a sweetheart,And one has left a wife,’Twill never do to mope and fret,Or curse a sailor’s life.See, far away they signal yet,—They dwindle—fade—they’re gone:For, dashing outwards, bold and brave,And springing light from wave to wave,Our merry ship flies on.Gay spreads the sparkling ocean;But many a gloomy nightAnd stormy morrow must be metEre next we heave in sight.The parting look we’ll ne’er forget,The kiss, the benison,As round the rolling world we go.God bless you all! Blow, breezes blow!Sail on, good ship, sail on!

The Brides of Venice

IIt was St. Mary’s eve; and all poured forth,As to some grand solemnity. The fisherCame from his islet, bringing o’er the wavesHis wife and little one; the husbandmanFrom the Firm Land, along the Po, the Brenta,Crowding the common ferry. All arrived;And in his straw the prisoner turned and listened,So great the stir in Venice. Old and youngThronged her three hundred bridges; the grave Turk,Turbaned, long-vested, and the cozening Jew,In yellow hat and threadbare gabardine,Hurrying along. For, as the custom was,The noblest sons and daughters of the state,They of patrician birth, the flower of Venice,Whose names are written in the “Book of Gold,”Were on that day to solemnize their nuptials.At noon, a distant murmur through the crowd,Rising and rolling on, announced their coming;And never from the first was to be seenSuch splendor or such beauty. Two and two(The richest tapestry unrolled before them),First came the brides in all their loveliness;Each in her veil, and by two bridemaids followed.Only less lovely, who behind her boreThe precious caskets that within containedThe dowry and the presents. On she moved,Her eyes cast down, and holding in her handA fan, that gently waved, of ostrich feathers.Her veil, transparent as the gossamer,Fell from beneath a starry diadem;And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone,Ruby or diamond or dark amethyst;A jewelled chain, in many a winding wreath,Wreathing her gold brocade.

Before the church,That venerable pile on the sea-brink,Another train they met,—no strangers to them,—Brothers to some, and to the rest still dearer,Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume,And, as he walked, with modest dignityFolding his scarlet mantle, histabarro.They join, they enter in, and up the aisleLed by the full-voiced choir, in bright procession,Range round the altar. In his vestments thereThe patriarch stands; and while the anthem flows,Who can look on unmoved? Mothers in secretRejoicing in the beauty of their daughters;Sons in the thought of making them their own;And they, arrayed in youth and innocence,Their beauty heightened by their hopes and fears.At length the rite is ending. All fall downIn earnest prayer, all of all ranks together;And stretching out his hands, the holy manProceeds to give the general benediction,When hark! a din of voices from without,And shrieks and groans and outcries, as in battle;And lo! the door is burst, the curtain rent,And armed ruffians, robbers from the deep,Savage, uncouth, led on by BarbarigoAnd his six brothers in their coats of steel,Are standing on the threshold! Statue-like,Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude,Each with his sabre up, in act to strike;Then, as at once recovering from the spell,Rush forward to the altar, and as soonAre gone again, amid no clash of arms,Bearing away the maidens and the treasures.Where are they now? Ploughing the distant waves,Their sails all set, and they upon the deckStanding triumphant. To the east they go,Steering for Istria, their accursed barks(Well are they known, the galliot and the galley)Freighted with all that gives to life its valueThe richest argosies were poor to them!Now might you see the matrons running wildAlong the beach; the men half armed and arming;One with a shield, one with a casque and spear;One with an axe, hewing the mooring-chainOf some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank,But on that day was drifting. In an hourHalf Venice was afloat. But long before,—Frantic with grief, and scorning all control,—The youths were gone in a light brigantine,Lying at anchor near the arsenal;Each having sworn, and by the holy rood,To slay or to be slain.And from the towerThe watchman gives the signal. In the eastA ship is seen, and making for the port;Her flag St. Mark’s. And now she turns the point,Over the waters like a sea-bird flying.Ha! ’tis the same, ’tis theirs! From stern to prowHung with green boughs, she comes, she comes, restoringAll that was lost!Coasting, with narrow search.Friuli, like a tiger in his spring,They had surprised the corsairs where they lay,Sharing the spoil in blind security,And casting lots; had slain them one and all,—All to the last,—and flung them far and wideInto the sea, their proper element.Him first, as first in rank, whose name so longHad hushed the babes of Venice, and who yetBreathing a little, in his look retainedThe fierceness of his soul.

Thus were the bridesLost and recovered. And what now remainedBut to give thanks? Twelve breastplates and twelve crowns,Flaming with gems and gold, the votive offeringsOf the young victors to their patron saint,Vowed on the field of battle, were erelongLaid at his feet; and to preserve foreverThe memory of a day so full of change,From joy to grief, from grief to joy again,Through many an age, as oft as it came round,’Twas held religiously with all observance.The Doge resigned his crimson for pure ermine;And through the city in a stately bargeOf gold were borne, with songs and symphonies,Twelve ladies young and noble. Clad they wereIn bridal white with bridal ornaments,Each in her glittering veil; and on the deckAs on a burnished throne, they glided by.No window or balcony but adornedWith hangings of rich texture; not a roofBut covered with beholders, and the airVocal with joy. Onward they went, their oarsMoving in concert with the harmony,Through the Rialto to the ducal palace;And at a banquet there, served with due honor,Sat, representing in the eyes of all—Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears—Their lovely ancestors, the “Brides of Venice.”

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.

TTHE breaking waves dashed highOn a stern and rock-bound coast,And the woods against a stormy skyTheir giant branches tossed;And the heavy night hung darkThe hills and water o’er,When a band of exiles moored their barkOn the wild New England shore.Not as the conqueror comes,They, the true-hearted, came;Not with the roll of the stirring drums,And the trumpet that sings of fame;Not as the flying come,In silence and in fear;They shook the depths of the desert gloomWith their hymns of lofty cheer.Amidst the storm they sang,And the stars heard, and the sea;And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rangTo the anthem of the free!

TTHE breaking waves dashed highOn a stern and rock-bound coast,And the woods against a stormy skyTheir giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung darkThe hills and water o’er,When a band of exiles moored their barkOn the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,They, the true-hearted, came;Not with the roll of the stirring drums,And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come,In silence and in fear;They shook the depths of the desert gloomWith their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,And the stars heard, and the sea;And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rangTo the anthem of the free!

The ocean eagle soaredFrom his nest by the white wave’s foam,And the rocking pines of the forest roared,—This was their welcome home.There were men with hoary hairAmidst that pilgrim band:Why had they come to wither there,Away from their childhood’s land?There was woman’s fearless eye,Lit by her deep love’s truth;There was manhood’s brow, serenely high,And the fiery heart of youth.What sought they thus afar?Bright jewels of the mine,The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?They sought a faith’s pure shrine!Aye, call it holy ground,The soil where first they trod;They have left unstained what there they found,—Freedom to worship God.

The ocean eagle soaredFrom his nest by the white wave’s foam,And the rocking pines of the forest roared,—This was their welcome home.

There were men with hoary hairAmidst that pilgrim band:Why had they come to wither there,Away from their childhood’s land?

There was woman’s fearless eye,Lit by her deep love’s truth;There was manhood’s brow, serenely high,And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?Bright jewels of the mine,The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?They sought a faith’s pure shrine!

Aye, call it holy ground,The soil where first they trod;They have left unstained what there they found,—Freedom to worship God.

The Days of Chivalry.

AALAS! The days of chivalry are fled,The brilliant tournament exists no more;Our loves are cold, and dull as ice or lead,And courting is a most enormous bore.In those good “olden times,” a “ladye bright”Might sit within her turret or her bower,While lovers sang and played without all night,And deemed themselves rewarded by a flower.Yet if one favored swain would persevere,In despite of her haughty scorn and laugh,Perchance she threw him, with the closing year,An old odd glove, or else a worn-out scarf.Off then, away he’d ride o’er sea and land,And dragons fell and mighty giants smiteWith the tough spear he carried in his hand;And all to prove himself her own true knight.

AALAS! The days of chivalry are fled,The brilliant tournament exists no more;Our loves are cold, and dull as ice or lead,And courting is a most enormous bore.

In those good “olden times,” a “ladye bright”Might sit within her turret or her bower,While lovers sang and played without all night,And deemed themselves rewarded by a flower.

Yet if one favored swain would persevere,In despite of her haughty scorn and laugh,Perchance she threw him, with the closing year,An old odd glove, or else a worn-out scarf.

Off then, away he’d ride o’er sea and land,And dragons fell and mighty giants smiteWith the tough spear he carried in his hand;And all to prove himself her own true knight.

Meanwhile a thousand more, as wild as he,Were all employed upon the self-same thing;And when each had rode hard for his “ladye,”They all come back and met within a ring.Where all the men who were entitled “syr”Appeared with martial air and haughty frown,Bearing “long poles, each other up to stir,”And, in the stir-up, thrust each other down.And then they galloped round with dire intent,Each knight resolved another’s pride to humble;And laughter rang around the tournamentAs oft as any of them had a tumble.And when, perchance, some ill-starred wight might die,The victim of a stout, unlucky poke,Mayhap some fair one wiped one beauteous eye,The rest smiled calmly on the deadly joke.Soon, then, the lady, whose grim, stalwart swainHad got the strongest horse and toughest pole,Bedecked him, kneeling, with a golden chain,And plighted troth before the motley whole.Alas! the days of chivalry are fled,The brilliant tournament exists no more.Men now are cold and dull as ice or lead,And even courtship is a dreadful bore.

Meanwhile a thousand more, as wild as he,Were all employed upon the self-same thing;And when each had rode hard for his “ladye,”They all come back and met within a ring.

Where all the men who were entitled “syr”Appeared with martial air and haughty frown,Bearing “long poles, each other up to stir,”And, in the stir-up, thrust each other down.

And then they galloped round with dire intent,Each knight resolved another’s pride to humble;And laughter rang around the tournamentAs oft as any of them had a tumble.

And when, perchance, some ill-starred wight might die,The victim of a stout, unlucky poke,Mayhap some fair one wiped one beauteous eye,The rest smiled calmly on the deadly joke.

Soon, then, the lady, whose grim, stalwart swainHad got the strongest horse and toughest pole,Bedecked him, kneeling, with a golden chain,And plighted troth before the motley whole.

Alas! the days of chivalry are fled,The brilliant tournament exists no more.Men now are cold and dull as ice or lead,And even courtship is a dreadful bore.

The Song of the Camp.

GGIVE us a song!” the soldiers cried,The outer trenches guarding,When the heated guns of the camps alliedGrew weary of bombarding.The dark Redan, in silent scoff,Lay grim and threatening under;And the tawny mound of the MalakoffNo longer belched its thunder.There was a pause. A guardsman said,“We storm the forts to-morrow;Sing while we may, another dayWill bring enough of sorrow.”They lay along the battery’s side,Below the smoking cannon,Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,And from the banks of Shannon.They sang of love, and not of fame;Forgot was Britain’s glory:Each heart recalled a different name,But all sang “Annie Lawrie.”

GGIVE us a song!” the soldiers cried,The outer trenches guarding,When the heated guns of the camps alliedGrew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,Lay grim and threatening under;And the tawny mound of the MalakoffNo longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said,“We storm the forts to-morrow;Sing while we may, another dayWill bring enough of sorrow.”

They lay along the battery’s side,Below the smoking cannon,Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;Forgot was Britain’s glory:Each heart recalled a different name,But all sang “Annie Lawrie.”

Voice after voice caught up the song,Until its tender passionRose like an anthem, rich and strong,—Their battle-eve confession.Beyond the darkening ocean burnedThe bloody sunset’s embers,While the Crimean valleys learnedHow English love remembers.And once again a fire of hellRained on the Russian quarters,With scream of shot and burst of shellAnd bellowing of the mortars!And Irish Nora’s eyes are dimFor a singer dumb and gory;And English Mary mourns for himWho sang of “Annie Lawrie.”Sleep, soldiers! still in honored restYour truth and valor wearing.The bravest are the tenderest,The loving are the daring.

Voice after voice caught up the song,Until its tender passionRose like an anthem, rich and strong,—Their battle-eve confession.

Beyond the darkening ocean burnedThe bloody sunset’s embers,While the Crimean valleys learnedHow English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hellRained on the Russian quarters,With scream of shot and burst of shellAnd bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora’s eyes are dimFor a singer dumb and gory;And English Mary mourns for himWho sang of “Annie Lawrie.”

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored restYour truth and valor wearing.The bravest are the tenderest,The loving are the daring.

The Recantation of Galileo.

FFAR ’neath the glorious light of the noontide,In a damp dungeon a prisoner lay,Aged and feeble, his failing years numbered,Waiting the fate to be brought him that day.Silence, oppressive with darkness, held durance;Death in the living, or living in death;Crouched on the granite, and burdened with fetters,Inhaling slow poison with each labored breath.O’er the damp floor of his dungeon there glistenedFaintly the rays of a swift-nearing light;Then the sweet jingle of keys, that soon openedThe door, and revealed a strange scene to his sight.In the red glare of the flickering torches,Held by the gray-gowned soldiers of God,Gathered a group that the world will rememberLong ages after we sleep ’neath the sod.Draped in their robes of bright scarlet and purple,Bearing aloft the gold emblems of Rome,Stood the chief priests of the papal dominion,Under the shadow of Peter’s proud dome,

FFAR ’neath the glorious light of the noontide,In a damp dungeon a prisoner lay,Aged and feeble, his failing years numbered,Waiting the fate to be brought him that day.

Silence, oppressive with darkness, held durance;Death in the living, or living in death;Crouched on the granite, and burdened with fetters,Inhaling slow poison with each labored breath.

O’er the damp floor of his dungeon there glistenedFaintly the rays of a swift-nearing light;Then the sweet jingle of keys, that soon openedThe door, and revealed a strange scene to his sight.

In the red glare of the flickering torches,Held by the gray-gowned soldiers of God,Gathered a group that the world will rememberLong ages after we sleep ’neath the sod.

Draped in their robes of bright scarlet and purple,Bearing aloft the gold emblems of Rome,Stood the chief priests of the papal dominion,Under the shadow of Peter’s proud dome,

By the infallible pontiff commanded,From his own lips their directions received;Sent to demand of the wise GalileoDenial of all the great truths he believed,—Before the whole world to give up his convictions,Because the great church said the world had not moved;Then to swear, before God, that his science was idle,And truth was unknown to the facts he had proved.So, loosing his shackles, they bade the sage listenTo words from the mouth of the vicar of God:“Recant thy vile doctrines, and life we will give thee:Adhere, and thy road to the grave is soon trod!”His doctrines—the truth, as proud Rome has acknowledged—On low, bended knee, in that vault he renounced;Yet with joy in their eyes, the high-priests retiring,“Confinement for life,” as his sentence pronounced.But as they left him, their malice rekindledFires that their threats had subdued in his breast:Clanking his chains, with fierce ardor he muttered,“But itdoesmove, and tyrants can ne’er make it rest.”

By the infallible pontiff commanded,From his own lips their directions received;Sent to demand of the wise GalileoDenial of all the great truths he believed,—

Before the whole world to give up his convictions,Because the great church said the world had not moved;Then to swear, before God, that his science was idle,And truth was unknown to the facts he had proved.

So, loosing his shackles, they bade the sage listenTo words from the mouth of the vicar of God:“Recant thy vile doctrines, and life we will give thee:Adhere, and thy road to the grave is soon trod!”

His doctrines—the truth, as proud Rome has acknowledged—On low, bended knee, in that vault he renounced;Yet with joy in their eyes, the high-priests retiring,“Confinement for life,” as his sentence pronounced.

But as they left him, their malice rekindledFires that their threats had subdued in his breast:Clanking his chains, with fierce ardor he muttered,“But itdoesmove, and tyrants can ne’er make it rest.”

Belshazzar.

TTHE midnight hour was drawing on;Flushed in repose lay Babylon;But in the palace of the kingThe herd of courtiers shout and sing.There, in his royal banquet hall,Belshazzar holds high festival.The servants sit in glittering rows,The beakers are drained, the red wine flows;The beakers clash and the servants sing,—A pleasing sound to the moody king.The king’s cheeks flush and his wild eyes shine,His spirit waxes bold with wine,Until, by maddening passion stung,He scoffs at God with impious tongue;And his proud heart swells as he wildly raves,’Mid shouts of applause from his fawning slaves.He spoke the word, and his eyes flashed flame!The ready servants went and came;Vessels of massive gold they bore,Of Jehovah’s temple the plundered store.Then seizing a consecrated cup,The king in his fury fills it up;He fills, and hastily drains it dry;From his foaming lips leaps forth the cry,“Jehovah, at Thee my scorn I fling!I am Belshazzar, Babylon’s king.”Yet scarce had the impious words been said,When the king’s heart shrank with secret dread;Suddenly died the shout and yell,A deathlike hush on the tumult fell.

TTHE midnight hour was drawing on;Flushed in repose lay Babylon;But in the palace of the kingThe herd of courtiers shout and sing.There, in his royal banquet hall,Belshazzar holds high festival.

The servants sit in glittering rows,The beakers are drained, the red wine flows;The beakers clash and the servants sing,—A pleasing sound to the moody king.The king’s cheeks flush and his wild eyes shine,His spirit waxes bold with wine,Until, by maddening passion stung,He scoffs at God with impious tongue;And his proud heart swells as he wildly raves,’Mid shouts of applause from his fawning slaves.He spoke the word, and his eyes flashed flame!The ready servants went and came;Vessels of massive gold they bore,Of Jehovah’s temple the plundered store.

Then seizing a consecrated cup,The king in his fury fills it up;He fills, and hastily drains it dry;From his foaming lips leaps forth the cry,“Jehovah, at Thee my scorn I fling!I am Belshazzar, Babylon’s king.”Yet scarce had the impious words been said,When the king’s heart shrank with secret dread;Suddenly died the shout and yell,A deathlike hush on the tumult fell.

And see! and see! on the white wall highThe form of a hand went slowly by,And wrote—and wrote in sight of allLetters of fire upon the wall!The king sat still, with a stony look,His trembling knees with terror shook;The menial throng nor spoke nor stirred;Fear froze the blood,—no sound was heard.The magicians came, but none of allCould read the writing on the wall.At length to solve those words of flame,Fearless, but meek, the prophet came.One glance he gave, and all was clear.“King! there is reason in thy fear.Those words proclaim, thy empire ends,The day of woe and wrath impends.Weighed in the balance, wanting found,Thou and thy empire strike the ground!”That night, by the servants of his train,Belshazzar, the mighty king, was slain!

The magicians came, but none of allCould read the writing on the wall.At length to solve those words of flame,Fearless, but meek, the prophet came.One glance he gave, and all was clear.“King! there is reason in thy fear.Those words proclaim, thy empire ends,The day of woe and wrath impends.Weighed in the balance, wanting found,Thou and thy empire strike the ground!”

That night, by the servants of his train,Belshazzar, the mighty king, was slain!

Liberty.

WWITH what pride I usedTo walk these hills, and look up to my God,And bless him that it was so! I lovedIts very storms. I have satIn my boat at night when, midway o’er the lake,The stars went out, and down the mountain gorgeThe wind came roaring. I have sat and eyedThe thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiledTo see him shake his lightnings o’er my head,And think I had no master save his own.You know the jutting cliff round which a trackUp hither winds, whose base is but the browTo such another one, with scanty roomFor two abreast to pass? O’ertaken thereBy the mountain blast, I’ve laid me flat along,And while gust followed gust more furiously,As if to sweep me o’er the horrid brink,And I have thought of other lands, whose stormsAre summer flaws to those of mine, and justHave wished me there—the thought that mine was freeHas checked that wish; and I have raised my head,And cried in thraldrom to that furious wind,Blow on! This is the land of liberty!

The Fishermen.

HHURRAH! the seaward breezesSweep down the bay amain.Heave up, my lads, the anchor!Run up the sail again!Leave to the lubber landsmenThe rail-car and the steed;The stars of heaven shall guide us,The breath of heaven shall speed.From the hill-top looks the steeple,And the lighthouse from the sand;And the scattered pines are wavingTheir farewell from the land.One glance, my lads, behind us,For the homes we leave one sigh,Ere we take the change and chancesOf the ocean and the sky.Now, brothers, for the icebergsOf frozen Labrador,Floating spectral in the moonshine,Along the low, black shore!Where like snow the gannet’s feathersOn Brador’s rocks are shed,And the noisy murr are flying,Like black scuds, overhead;Where in mist the rock is hiding,And the sharp reef lurks below,And the white squall smites in summer,And the autumn tempests blow;Where, through gray and rolling vapor,From evening unto morn,A thousand boats are hailing,Horn answering unto horn.Hurrah for the Red Island,With the white cross on its crown!Hurrah for Meccatina,And its mountains bare and brown!Where the caribou’s tall antlersO’er the dwarf-wood freely toss,And the footstep of the mickmackHas no sound upon the moss.There we’ll drop our lines, and gatherOld Ocean’s treasures in,Where’er the mottled mackerelTurns up a steel-dark fin.The sea’s our field of harvest,Its scaly tribes our grain;We’ll reap the teeming watersAs at home they reap the plain!Our wet hands spread the carpet,And light the hearth of home;From our fish, as in the old time,The silver coin shall come.As the demon fled the chamberWhere the fish of Tobit lay,So ours from all our dwellingsShall frighten Want away.

From the hill-top looks the steeple,And the lighthouse from the sand;And the scattered pines are wavingTheir farewell from the land.One glance, my lads, behind us,For the homes we leave one sigh,Ere we take the change and chancesOf the ocean and the sky.

Now, brothers, for the icebergsOf frozen Labrador,Floating spectral in the moonshine,Along the low, black shore!Where like snow the gannet’s feathersOn Brador’s rocks are shed,And the noisy murr are flying,Like black scuds, overhead;

Where in mist the rock is hiding,And the sharp reef lurks below,And the white squall smites in summer,And the autumn tempests blow;Where, through gray and rolling vapor,From evening unto morn,A thousand boats are hailing,Horn answering unto horn.

Hurrah for the Red Island,With the white cross on its crown!Hurrah for Meccatina,And its mountains bare and brown!Where the caribou’s tall antlersO’er the dwarf-wood freely toss,And the footstep of the mickmackHas no sound upon the moss.

There we’ll drop our lines, and gatherOld Ocean’s treasures in,Where’er the mottled mackerelTurns up a steel-dark fin.The sea’s our field of harvest,Its scaly tribes our grain;We’ll reap the teeming watersAs at home they reap the plain!

Our wet hands spread the carpet,And light the hearth of home;From our fish, as in the old time,The silver coin shall come.As the demon fled the chamberWhere the fish of Tobit lay,So ours from all our dwellingsShall frighten Want away.

Though the mist upon our jacketsIn the bitter air congeals,And our lines wind stiff and slowlyFrom off the frozen reels,Though the fog be dark around us,And the storm blow high and loud,We will whistle down the wild wind,And laugh beneath the cloud!In the darkness as in daylight,On the water as on land,God’s eye is looking on us,And beneath us is his hand!Death will find us soon or later,On the deck or in the cot;And we cannot meet him betterThan in working out our lot.Hurrah! hurrah! The west windComes freshening down the bay,The rising sails are filling,—Give way, my lads, give way!Leave the coward landsman clingingTo the dull earth, like a weed.The stars of heaven shall guide us,The breath of heaven shall speed!

In the darkness as in daylight,On the water as on land,God’s eye is looking on us,And beneath us is his hand!Death will find us soon or later,On the deck or in the cot;And we cannot meet him betterThan in working out our lot.

Hurrah! hurrah! The west windComes freshening down the bay,The rising sails are filling,—Give way, my lads, give way!Leave the coward landsman clingingTo the dull earth, like a weed.The stars of heaven shall guide us,The breath of heaven shall speed!

Excelsior.

TTHE shades of night were falling fast,As through an Alpine village passedA youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice,A banner, with the strange device,Excelsior!His brow was sad; his eye, beneath,Flashed like a falchion from its sheath;And like a silver clarion rungThe accents of that unknown tongue,Excelsior!In happy homes he saw the lightOf household fires gleam warm and bright.Above, the spectral glaciers shone;And from his lips escaped a groan,Excelsior!“Try not the pass!” the old man said;“Dark lowers the tempest overhead!The roaring torrent is deep and wide!”And loud that clarion voice replied,Excelsior!

TTHE shades of night were falling fast,As through an Alpine village passedA youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice,A banner, with the strange device,Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye, beneath,Flashed like a falchion from its sheath;And like a silver clarion rungThe accents of that unknown tongue,Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the lightOf household fires gleam warm and bright.Above, the spectral glaciers shone;And from his lips escaped a groan,Excelsior!

“Try not the pass!” the old man said;“Dark lowers the tempest overhead!The roaring torrent is deep and wide!”And loud that clarion voice replied,Excelsior!

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