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Brpan Waller Procter
And the frost shrinks back, like a beated
hound, The sea ! the sea ! the open sea !
Under the steaming, steaming ground. The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by, Without a mark, without a bound,
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky! It runneth the earth's wide regions round ; Our horses are ready and steady.
- So, ho ! It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ; I'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's bow. Or like a cradled creature lies.
Hark, hark! - Who calleth the maiden
Morn I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea !
From her sleep in the woods and the I am where I would ever be ;
stubble corn? With the blue above, and the blue below,
the horn! And silence wberesoe'er I go ;
The merry, sweet ring of the hunter's horn. If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep. Now, thorough the copse, where the fox is
found, I love, O, how I love to ride
And over the stream, at a mighty bound, On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, And over the high lands, and over the low, When every mad wave drowns the moon O’er furrows, o'er meadows, the hunters go! Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
Away!- as a hawk flies full at its prey, And tells how goeth the world below,
So fieth the hunter, away, And why the sou’west blasts do blow. From the burst at the cover till set of sun,
When the red fox dies, and — the day is I never was on the dull, tame shore,
done ! But I lov'd the great sea more and more, Hark, hark ! - Who ound on the wind And backwards flew to her billowy breast,
is borne? Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest ; 'Tis the conquering voice of the hunter's And a mother she was, and is, to me ;
horn. For I was born on the open sea !
The horn, the horn!
The merry, bold voice of the hunter's horn. The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born ;
Sound ! Sound the horn! To the hunter And the whale it whistled, the porpoise
What's the gulley deep or the roaring flood ? And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ; | Right over he bounds, as the wild stag And never was heard such an outcry wild
bounds, As welcom'd to life the ocean-child !
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds.
0, what delight can a mortal lack, I're liv'd since then, in calm and strife, When he once is firm on his horse's back, Full fifty summers, a sailor's life,
With his stirrups short, and his snaffle With wealth to spend and a power to range,
strong, But never have sought nor sighed for And the blast of the horn for his morning
change ; And Death, whenever he comes to me,
Hark, hark! - Now, home! and dream Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea !
iill morn Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter's
horn! THE HUNTER'S SONG
The horn, - the horn! Rise! Sleep no more ! 'Tis a noble morn : 0, the sound of all sounds is the hunter The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn,
Ah!— With what thankless heart
I mourn and sing !
Like sudden Spring !
Like a pleasant rhyme, They tell how much I owe
To thee and Time !
THE STORMY PETREL
A THOUSAND miles from land are we,
stone Their natural hard, proud strength disown. Up and down! Up and down ! From the base of the wave to the billow's
crown, And midst the flashing and feathery foam The Stormy Petrel finds a home, A home, if such a place may be, For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, And only seeketh her rocky lair
PEACE! what do tears avail ?
And from her eye
And she must die !
Then, why not die ?
And hopeless lie ?
And with her fly
ness, The Angels lie. Wilt bear her there, O Death! in all her
whiteness ? Reply, reply!
WE are born ; we laugh ; we weep ;
We love ; we droop; we die !
And died untam'd upon the sands Where Balkh amidst the desert stands !
Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep?
Why do we live, or die ? Who knows that secret deep ?
Alas, not I!
Why doth the violet spring
Unseen by human eye ?
Sweet thoughts that quickly fly?
To things that die ? We toil, — through pain and wrong ;
We fight, — and fly;
Stone-dead we lie.
“Endure and die" ?
SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL Sit down, sad soul, and count
The moments flying :
That's lost by sighing !
- a score ? Then
laugh, and count no more ; For day is dying.
Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,
And no more measure The flight of Time, nor weep
The loss of leisure ; But here, by this lone stream, Lie down with us, and dream
Of starry treasure.
We dream : do thou the same :
We love — for ever; We laugh; yet few we shame,
The gentle, never. Stay, then, till Sorrow dies ; Then - hope and happy skies
Are thine for ever!
THE BLOOD HORSE GAMARRA is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble breed, Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known ; Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, But blown abroad by the pride within ! His mane is like a river flowing, And his eyes like embers glowing In the darkness of the night, And his pace as swift as light. Look, — how 'round his straining throat Grace and shifting beauty float ! Sinewy strength is on his reins, And the red blood gallops through his veins ; Richer, redder, never ran Through the boasting heart of man. He can trace his lineage higher Than the Bourbon dare aspire, Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, Or O'Brien's blood itself !
GOLDEN-TRESSED ADELAIDE Sing, I pray, a little song,
Mother dear! Neither sad nor very long : It is for a little maid, Golden-tressed Adelaide ! Therefore let it suit a merry, merry ear,
Mother dear !
Let it be a merry strain,
Mother dear! Shunning e'en the thought of pain : For our gentle child will weep, If the theme be dark and deep ;. And we will not draw a single, single tear,
Mother dear !
Childhood should be all divine,
Mother dear! And like an endless summer shine ; Gay as Edward's shouts and cries, Bright as Agnes' azure eyes : Therefore, bid thy soug be merry : - dost
thou hear, Mother dear?
A POET'S THOUGHT
A PETITION TO TIME
Tell me, what is a poet's thought ?
Is it on the sudden born ?
Or by whispering morn ?
Was it cradled in the brain ?
Chain'd awhile, or nurs'd in night? Was it wrought with toil and pain ? Did it bloom
and fade again, Ere it burst to light ? No more question of its birth :
Rather love its better part ! 'T is a thing of sky and earth, Gathering all its golden worth
From the Poet's heart.
Touch us gently, Time !
Let us glide adown thy stream
Through a quiet dream.
We've not proud nor soaring wings : Our ambition, our content,
Lies in simple things.
Charles Jeremiah Wells
FROM “JOSEPH AND HIS
RACHEL, the beautiful (as she was call’d), Despis'd our mother Leah, for that she Was tender-ey'd, lean-favor'd, and did lack The pulpy ripeness swelling the white skin To sleek proportions beautiful and round, With wrinkled joints so fruitful to the eye. All this is fair : and yet we know it true That 'neath a pomane breast and snowy
side A heart of guile and falsehood may be hid, As well as where the soil is deeper tinct. So here with this same Rachel was it found : The dim blue-laced veins on either brow, Neath the transparent skin meandering, That with the silver-leaved lily vied ; Her full dark eye, whose brightness glis
ten'd through The sable lashes soft as camel-hair ; Her slanting head cury'd like the maiden
All these did tend to a bad proof in her.
side, Casting on Leah indifference and neglect ; Whereat great Heaven took our mother's
part And struck young Rachel with a barrenness, While she bore children : thus the matter
went ; Till Rachel, feeling guilty of her fault, Turn’d to some penitence, which Heaven
heard ; And then she bore this Joseph, who must,
And hung with hair luxuriant as a vine And blacker than a storm ; her rounded ear Turn'd like a shell upon some golden shore ; Her whispering foot that carried all her