Now, as more vivid and intense each splinter flies, The temper of the fire the skilful master tries; The huge sledge-hammers round in order they arrange, And waking anchorsmiths await the looked-for change, Longing with all their force the ardent mass to smite, When issuing from the fire arrayed in dazzling white; And, as old Vulcan's Cyclops did the anvil bang, To make in concert rude their ponderous hammers clang, So the misshapen lumps to symmetry they beat, 645 The preparations thicken; with forks the fire they goad; And now twelve anchorsmiths the heaving bellows load; While armed from every danger, and in grim array, Anxious as howling demons waiting for their prey: The forge the anchor yields from out its fiery maw, Which on the anvil prone, the cavern shouts hurrah! And now the scorched beholders want the power to gaze, Faint with its heat, and dazzled with its powerful rays; While, as old Vulcan's Cyclops did the anvil bang, To forge Jove's thunderbolts, their ponderous hammers clang; And, till its fire 's extinct, the monstrous mass they beat To save from adverse winds and waves the gallant British fleet. CHARLES DIBDIN. 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright-the high | But while ye swing your sledges, sing: and let the sun shines not so! burthen be The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fear- The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen ful show! we! The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy Strike in, strike in!- the sparks begin to dull their lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe! rustling red; As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sail- Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich ing monster slow array Sinks on the anvil-all about, the faces fiery For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy grow: couch of clay; "Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap out!" Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry bang, bang! the sledges go; craftsmen here Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave-away, and the and low; sighing seamen's cheer A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squash- When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from ing blow; love and home; The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the cinders strew The ground around; at every bound the swelter ing fountains flow; And, thick and loud, the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "ho!" Leap out, leap out, my masters! leap out, and lay on load! Let's forge a goodly anchor—a bower thick and broad; For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode; And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road The low reef roaring on her lee; the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board; The bulwarks down; the rudder gone; the boats stove at the chains; But courage still, brave mariners- the bower yet remains! And not an inch to flinch he deigns-save when ye pitch sky high; Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing here am I!" ocean-foam. In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last; A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. O trusted and trustworthy guard! if thou hadst life like me, What pleasure would thy toils reward beneath the deep-green sea! O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou? — The hoary monster's palaces! - Methinks what joy 'twere now To go plumb-plunging down, amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails! Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce seaunicorn, And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn; To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn; And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn: Swing in your strokes in order! let foot and hand To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid keep time; Norwegian isles Your blows make music sweeter far than any He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed steeple's chime. miles Horses, wines, and works of art,Everything except a heart That is lost, that is lost. Once when I was pure and young, Or a wrinkle creased my brow, ROBERT BARRY COFFIN. A Cry from the Shore. COME down, ye graybeard mariners, Unto the wasting shore! The morning winds are up; the gods Bid me to dream no more. Come, tell me whither I must sail, What peril there may be, Before I take my life in hand And venture out to sea! "We may not tell thee where to sail, Nor what the dangers are: Each sailor soundeth for himself, And on the awful sea What we have learned is ours alone; We may not tell it thee." Come back, O ghostly mariners, I dread the dark, impetuous tides; "Hail and farewell, O voyager! Thyself must read the waves; What we have learned of sun and storm Lies with us in our graves: What we have learned of sun and storm Is ours alone to know. The winds are blowing out to sea: ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON. Where Lies the Land? WHERE lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know; On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face, On stormy nights, when wild northwesters rave, Where lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know; ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. Youth and Calm. "TIS death! and peace indeed is here, |