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THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

And then I set my heart upon war:
Hurrah!

We gained some battles with éclat :

Hurrah!

We troubled the foe with sword and flame,
And some of our friends fared quite the same.
I lost a leg for fame.

Now I've set my heart upon nothing, you see:
Hurrah!

And the whole wide world belongs to me:

Hurrah!

The feast begins to run low, no doubt;

But at the old cask we'll have one good bout!
Come drink the lees all out!

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. (German.)

Translation of JOHN S. DWIGHT.

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged! 'tis at a white heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though, on the forge's brow,

The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound,
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round;
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare,
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

The windlass strains the tackle-chains- the black mould heaves below;
And, red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe.

It rises, roars, rends all outright-O, Vulcan! what a glow!
'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright the high sun shines not so!
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful show!
The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row
Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe!
As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow
Sinks on the anvil-all about, the faces fiery grow.

"Hurrah!" they shout, leap out, leap out!" bang, bang! the sledges go;

Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low;

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow;
The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders strow
The ground around; at every bound the sweltering 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!"

Swing in your strokes in order! let foot and hand keep time;
Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime.

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burden be,
The anchor is the anvil-king, and royal craftsmen we!

Strike in, strike in!—the sparks begin to dull their rustling red;
Our hammers ring with sharper din - our work will soon be sped;
Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;
Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here
For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave-away, and the sighing seamen's

cheer,

When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and home; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the 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 pleasures 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 sea-unicorn,

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;
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles
He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles,
Till, snorting like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls;
Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished shoals
Of his back-browsing ocean-calves; or, haply, in a cove
Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love,

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

To find the long-haired mermaidens; or, hard by icy lands,
To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands.

O broad-armed fisher of the deep! whose sports can equal thine?
The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that tugs thy cable line;
And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,
Through sable sea and breaker white the giant game to play.
But, shamer of our little sports, forgive the name I gave:
A fisher's joy is to destroy-thine office is to save.

O lodger in the sea-kings' halls! couldst thou but understand
Whose be the white bones by thy side- or who that dripping band,
Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend,
With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend!
O, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round

thee,

Thine iron side would swell with pride-thou 'dst leap within the

sea
!

Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand

To shed their blood so freely for the love of fatherland,

Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave

So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave!

O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung,
Honor him for their memory whose bones he goes among!

SAMUEL FERGUSON.

CHOOSING A NAME.

I HAVE got a new-born sister;
I was nigh the first that kissed her.
When the nursing-woman brought her
To papa, his infant daughter,
How papa's dear eyes did glisten!
She will shortly be to christen;
And papa has made the offer,

I shall have the naming of her.

Now I wonder what would please her:

Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa?

Ann and Mary, they're too common;
Joan's too formal for a woman;

Jane's a prettier name beside,
But we had a Jane that died.
They would say, if 'twas Rebecca,
That she was a little Quaker.
Edith's pretty, but that looks
Better in old English books;
Ellen's left off long ago;
Blanche is out of fashion now.
None that I have named as yet
Are so good as Margaret.

Emily is neat and fine;

What do you think of Caroline?

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