Colder and louder blew the wind,

A gale from the northeast; The snow fell hissing in the brine,

And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;

She shuddered and paused like a frightened steed,
Then leaped her cable's length.

"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,

And do not tremble so;

For I can weather the roughest gale,

That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
Against the stinging blast;

He cut a rope from a broken spar,

And bound her to the mast.

"Oh, father! I hear the church-bells ring, Oh, say, what may it be?"

""Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast! And he steered for the open sea.

"Oh, father! I hear the sound of guns, Oh, say, what may it be?"

"Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!"

"Oh, father! I see a gleaming light,
Oh, say, what may it be?"

But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That savéd she might be;

And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave On the lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept

Toward the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever, the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,

And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,

But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,

To see the form of a maiden fair

Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;

And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!

Christ save us all from a death like this,

On the reef of Norman's Woe!

82. MARCO BOZZARIS.-Fitz Greene Halleck.

Effusive and Explosive O., medium pitch, varied melody.
At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power:

In dreams, through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams, his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring,—
Then pressed that monarch's throne,- a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird.

An hour passed on,- the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;

He woke to hear his sentries shriek

"TO ARMS! they come! the GREEK! the GREEK!
He woke, to die midst flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan and saber-stroke,

And death-shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain cloud;
And heard with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band:
"Strike,- till the last armed foe expires!
STRIKE,- for your altars and your fires!
STRIKE,- for the green graves of your sires!
GOD, and your native land!"

They fought, like brave men, long and well;
They piled that ground with Moslem slain;
They conquered: but Bozzaris fell

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile, when rang their proud hurrah,

And the red field was won;

Then saw in death his eyelids close,

Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!

Come to the mother when she feels
For the first time her first-born's breath;
Come when the blesséd seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in Consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake's shock, the ocean's storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet song, and dance, and wine,—
And thou art terrible: the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear,

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
BOZZARIS! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee: there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime.

We tell thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,-
One of the few immortal names,

That were not born to die!

83. THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP.-Henry W. Longfellow.

Then the Master,

With a gesture of command,

Waved his hand;

And at the word,

Loud and sudden there was heard,
All around them and below,

The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
Knocking away the shores and spurs.
And see! she stirs!

She starts-she moves-she seems to feel
The thrill of life along her keel,

And, spurning with her foot the ground,
With one exulting, joyous bound,
She leaps into the ocean's arms!

And lo! from the assembled crowd

There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
That to the ocean seemed to say,

"Take her, O bridegroom old and gray;
Take her to thy protecting arms,
With all her youth and all her charms."

How beautiful she is! how fair

She lies within those arms, that press
Her form with many a soft caress

Of tenderness and watchful care!
Sail forth into the sea, O ship!

Through wind and wave, right onward steer!
The moistened eye, the trembling lip,

Are not the signs of doubt or fear.

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State,
Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!
Humanity, with all its fears

With all the hopes of future years,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
We know what master laid thy keel,
What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a forge and what a heat
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!