THE STORMY-PETREL.

A thousand miles from land are we,
Tossing about on the roaring sea;
From billow to bounding billow cast,
Like fleecy clouds on the stormy blast.

The sails are scattered abroad like weeds;
The strong masts shake like quivering reeds;
The mighty cables and iron chains,

The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,They strain and they crack; and hearts like 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

To warm her young, and to teach them to spring At once on the waves on their stormy wing!

O'er the deep! o'er the deep!

Where the whale and the shark and the sword-fish sleep,

Outflying the blast and the driving rain,

The petrel telleth her tale in vain;

For the mariner curseth the warning bird

Which bringeth him news of the storm unheard.
Ah! thus doth the prophet of good or ill
Meet hate from the creatures ne serveth still;
Yet he never falters-so, petrel, spring
Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing!

PROCTER.

NEPTUNE'S EASY SHAVING SHOP,

KEPT BY JOHN JOHNSON.

disguised recognized libation

nautical

grotesque prosperous christen alteration majesty dialogue respondent unmixed

The performers then appeared as follows: First, the fiddler, playing as well as he could on an old fiddle, "See the Conquering Hero comes!" Next four men, two abreast, disguised with matting and rags, so as completely to prevent them from being recognized, each armed with a boat-hook. Then came Neptune himself, also disguised, mounted upon the carriage of the largest gun in the ship, and followed by the barber, barber's mate, swab-bearer, shaving-box carrier, and as many of the ship's company as chose to join them, dressed in such a grotesque manner as to baffle all description. Arrived on the quarter-deck, they were met by the captain, when his briny majesty immediately dismounted, and the following dialogue ensued:

"Are you the captain of the ship?" 66 I am."

"What is the name of your ship?"

"The 'Neptune,' of London."

"Where is she bound to ?"

"Greenland."

"What is

your name ?"

"Mathew Ainsley."

"Are you engaged in the whale fishery ?"

"I am.

"Well, I hope I shall drink your honour's health, and I wish you a prosperous fishery."

Here the captain presented the first libation of three quarts of rum. Neptune, filling a glass with evident satisfaction, unmixed with sea-water, exclaimed,

66

Here's a health to you, captain, and success to our cause! Have you got any fresh-water sailors on board? for, if you have, I must christen them so as to make them useful to our King and country."

"We have eight of them on board, at your service," said the captain, "I therefore wish you good morning!"

The procession then returned in the same manner as it came, the candidates for nautical distinction following in the rear. After descending the forehatchway, they collected between-decks, when all the offerings to Neptune were given to the deputy (the cook), consisting of whiskey, tobacco, &c. The barber then stood ready with his box of lather, and the landsmen were brought before Neptune, when the following dialogue took place with each, only with the alteration of the man's name: "What is your name?”

"Gilbert Nicholson."

"Where do you come from ?" "Shetland."

"Have you ever been to sea before ?"

"No."

“Where are are you going to ?" "Greenland."

At each of these answers, the brush (dipped in the lather, consisting of soap-suds, oil, tar, paint, &c.) was thrust into the respondent's mouth and over his face; then the barber's man scraped his face with a razor made of a piece of iron hoop well notched. He was then wiped with a damask towel (a boat-rug dipped in filthy water), and this ended the ceremony.

VESPERS.

Child, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;
Mother, with thine earnest eye
Ever following silently;

Father, by the breeze of eve

Called thy harvest-work to leave ;—
Pray! ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart and bend the knee.

Traveller, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the darkening sea-
Lift the heart and bend the knee.

Warrior, that from battle won
Breathest now at set of sun;
Woman, o'er the lowly slain
Weeping on his burial plain;
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,

Kindred by one holy tie

Heaven's first star alike ye see-
Lift the heart and bend the knee.

MRS. HEMANS.

THE EXILE OF ERIN.

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin:
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:
For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.

But the day-star attracted his eyes' sad devotion;
For it rose o'er his own native Isle of the ocean;
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-Bragh.
"Sad is my fate," said the heart-broken stranger;
"The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,
But I have no refuge from famine and danger—
A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again in the green sunny bowers

Where my forefathers lived shall I spend the sweet hours;

Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
Or strike to the numbers of Erin-go-Bragh.

Erin, my country, though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
But alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more. Where is my cabin door, near to the wild wood? Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?

Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood? And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all ?

Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw:
Erin! an exile bequeathes thee his blessing:
Land of my forefathers! Erin-go-Bragh.

Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean;
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
Erin Mavourneen! Erin-go-Bragh!

CAMPBELL.