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A SAILOR'S PAY,
From the Opera of A House to be Sold.
BY JAMES COBB.
My due a noble nation pays,
(War's thunder now no more) Most do I prize my Country's praise,
And least this shining store. But if a real joy I prove,
In what rewards my pains ; It is a hope the friend I love
May share my dear-bought gains.
Yet not alone that hope I prize,
Love pictures to my heart The tears that flow'd from Mary's eyes,
When fortune bade us part.
Another joy my heart shall prove,
In what rewards my pains ; It is the hope the girl I love
May share my dear-bought gains.
The Scene was more beautiful far to my eye Than if day in its pride had array'd it;
; The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure
arch'd sky Look'd pure as the Spirit had made it : The murmur rose soft, as I silently gaz'd
On the shadowy wave's playful motion, From the dim distant isle, when the Beacon fire
blaz'd Like a star in the midst of the ocean.
No longer the joy of the sailor boy's breast
Was heard in his wildly-breath'd numbers; The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest,
The fisherman sunk to his slumbers. One moment I look'd from the hill's gentle slope
(All hush'd was the billows' commotion) And thought that the Beacon look'd lovely as
The time is long past, and the scene is afar,
Yet when my head rests on its pillow, Will memory sometimes rekindle the star
That blaz'd on the breast of the billow.
In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul
flies, And death stills the heart's last emotion ; O then may the bright beams of mercy arise
Like a star on eternity's ocean.
By day, when the sun in his bright glory glows,
The Sentinel, then, upon guard takes his stand, So gallant and trim in his best suit of cloaths,
His bayonet fix'd and his firelock in hand ; Mid tents or on ramparts he marches his ground,
Flags wave in theair, and the loud cannons roar, The trumpets and drums give their heart
cheering sound, And the Sentinel, then, feels the Soldier all o'er.
2 When the evening declines, and the moon climbs
the sky, And myriads of stars shine resplendent above, When the breeze but at intervals heaves a faint
sigh, And no footstep, but his, is permitted to
move;The Sentinel, then, to reflection gives way, His thoughts soar to Him, who the moon and
stars made, Oh! can he refrain to his Maker to pray, Whose bounties, the sky, earth, and ocean pervade?
3 But, if dark be the night, and the winds, with
Drive the labouring clouds thro' the heav'n's
boundless way, If breakers are heard to lash frequent the shore, And rain pours in torrents to fight the strong
spray, From his box, then, the Sentinel looks out with
fear, While winds, waves, and rains Nature's
beauties deform, But, amid desolation, he knows Wisdom's near, Who rides in the whirlwind, and checks the
4 With fear and with hope, he preserves his heart
right, And patiently waits for the bright cheering
dawn, Desolation and horror endure for a night, But joy will succeed it, and come with the
morn.t His moments of duty completed, he knows, That another succeeds to take charge of his
post, And he, without care, may then seek his repose, And his joys be endear'd by what trouble had crost.
5 He sees in his lot but a picture of man,
Sent here upon duty, a Soldier on guard, And sunshine, or storm, he must meet as he can, Must expect a surprise, and be true to his
ward. But the season of trial will soon have an end, The moment will come when he meets his
relief, If true to his post, then his Captain's his friend,
And joy shall efface all remembrance of grief.
* Rides iu the whirl-wind, and directs the storm.
THE CAMPAIGN. BY ADDISON. + Psalin xXx. 1.5.