And she cried: 'Ply the oar ;

Put off gaily from shore!'

As she spoke, bolts of death
Mixed with hail, specked their path.
O'er the sea.

And from isle, tower, and rock,
The blue beacon-cloud broke,
Though dumb in the blast,
The red cannon flashed fast
From the lee.

III.

'And fear'st thou, and fear'st thou? And see'st thou, and hear'st thou ? And drive we not free

O'er the terrible sea,
I and thou?'

One boat-cloak did cover
The loved and the lover

Their blood beats one measure,
They murmur proud pleasure
Soft and low;

While around the lashed Ocean,
Like mountains in motion,
Is withdrawn and uplifted,
Sunk, shattered, and shifted,
To and fro.

:

IV.

In the court of the fortress

Beside the pale portress,
Like a blood-hound well beaten
The bridegroom stands, eaten
By shame;

On the topmost watch-turret,
As a death-boding spirit,
Stands the grey tyrant father,
To his voice the mad weather
Seems tame;

And with curses as wild
As e'er clung to child,

He devotes to the blast
The best, loveliest, and last

Of his name!

SONG.

SHELLEY.

'O MARY, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,

Across the sands o' Dee;'

The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,

And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see;

The blinding mist came down and hid the land,And never home came she.

'O is it weed or fish or floating hair,

A tress o' golden hair,

O' drowned maiden's hair,

Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,
Among the stakes on Dee."

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea;

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home

Across the sands o' Dee.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

THE FISHERMAN.

A PERILOUS life, and sad as life may be,
Hath the lone fisher on the lonely sea,
O'er the wide waters laboring, far from home,
For some bleak pittance e'er compelled to roam;
Few hearts to cheer him through his dangerous life,
And none to aid him in the stormy strife;
Companion of the sea and silent air,

The lonely fisher thus must ever fare;

Without the comfort, hope, with scarce a friend, He looks through life, and only sees its end!

BARRY CORNWALL.

SIR PATRICK SPENS.

THE king sits in Dunfermline town,
Drinking the blude-red wine;
'O where will I get a gude skipper,
To sail this new ship of mine? '

Then up and spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the king's right knee, -
'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor,
That ever sailed the sea.'

The king has written a braid letter
And sealed it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking to the strand.

"To Noroway, to Noroway,

To Noroway over the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis thou must bring her hame.'

The first word that Sir Patrick read,
Sae loud, loud, laughed he;
The next word that Sir Patrick read,
The salt tear blinded his e'e.

'O wha is this has done this deed,
And told the king o' me,

To send us out at this time o' the year,
To sail upon the sea?

'Be it wind, be it weet, be it sail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame.'