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The sead was flying athwart the sky,
The gathering winds went whistling by,
And the wave, as it towered then fell in spray,
Looked an emerald wall in the moonlight ray.

The mariner swayed and roeked on the mast,

But the tumult pleased him well:
Down the yawning ware his eye he cast,
And the monsters watched, as they hurried past,

Or lightly rose and fell, For their broad, damp fins were under the tide, And they lashed, as they passed the vessel's side, And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim, Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him.


Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship goes

Like an uncurbed steed along;
A sheet of flame is the spray she throws,
As her gallant prow the water plows;

But the ship is fleet and strong;
The topsails are reefed, and the sails are furled,
and onward she sweeps o'er the watery world,
And dippeth her spars in the surging flood;
But there cometh no chill to the mariner's blood.


Wildly she rocks, but he swingeth at ease,

And holds him by the shroud;
And, as she careens to the crowding breeze,
The gaping deep the mariner sees,

And the surging heareth loud.
Was that a face, looking up at him
With its pallid cheek, and its cold eyes dim?
Did it beckon him down ? Did it call his name?
Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came.

v. The mariner looked, and he saw, with dread.

A face he knew too well;
And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead,
And its long hair out on the waves was spread

Was there a tale to tell ?
The stout ship rocked with a reeling speed,
And the mariner groaned, as well he need
For ever down, as she plunged on her side,
The dead face gleamed from the briny tide

Bethink thee, mariner, well of the past :

A voice calls loud for thee;
There's a stifled prayer, the first, the last;
The plunging ship on her beam is cast-

Oh, where shall thy burial be?
Bethink thee of oaths, that were lightly spoken ,
Bethink thee of vows, that were lightly broken;
Bethink thee of all that is dear to thee,
For thou art alone on the raging sea.


Alone in the dark, alone on the wave

To buffet the storm alone;
To struggle aghast at thy watery grave,
To struggle and feel there is none to save !

God shield thee, helpless one!
The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past;
The trembling hands on the deep are cast;
The white brow gleams a moment more,
Then slowly sinks—the struggle is o'er.


Down, down, where the storm is hushed to sleep,

Where the sea its dirge shall swell; Where the amber-drops for thee shall weep, And the rose-lipped shell its music keep;

There thou shalt slumber well.

The gem and the pearl lie heaped at thy side ;
They fell from the neck of the beautiful bride,
From the strong man's hand, from the maiden's brow,
As they slowly sunk to the wave below.

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A peopled home is the ocean-bed;

The mother and child are there :
The fervent youth and the hoary head,
The maid with her floating locks outspread,

The babe with its silken hair:
As the water moveth they slightly sway,
And the tranquil lights on their features play:
And there is each cherished and beautiful form,
Away from decay, and away from the storm.


QEORGE CRABBE, the poet, was born in Suffolk, England, December 24th, 1754, and died at Trowbridge, in Wiltshire, February 3d, 1832. He was destined for the medical profession, but his tastes ultimately carried him to that of literature. Among his productions, as a poet, the “Village" and the • Parish Register” are justly accounted the best. In the delineation of character, in minute description of scenes and circumstances, especially those in humble life, he is severely true and touching. His sympathies lay with the poor, the friendless, the unfortunate, and, in his lines, vice and wretchedness are painted in colors too vivid to be without interest to the dullest mind. He war, in truth, what Byron affirmed of him "nature's sternest painter, get the best."



Next to these ladies, but in naught allied,
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.
Noble he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestioned and his soul serene:
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid ;
At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed:

Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face;
Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,
Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved;
To bliss domestic he his heart resigned,
And with the firmest, had the fondest mind.


Were others joyful, he looked smiling on, And gave allowance where he needed none; Good he refused with future ill to buy, Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh: A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast No envy stung, no jealousy distressed; (Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind To miss one favor which their neighbors find ;) Yet far was he from stoic-pride removed ; He felt humanely, and he warmly loved : I marked his action when his infant died, And his old neighbor for offense was tried ; The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek, Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak.


If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride, Who, in their base contempt, the great deride; Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed, If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed; Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew None his superior, and his equals few: But, if that spirit, in his soul, had place, It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace; A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained, In sturdy boys to virtuous labors trained; Pride in the power that guards his country's coast, And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast; Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied, In fact, a noble passion, misnamed pride



I. Six years had passed, and forty ere the six, When time began to play his usual tricks; The locks, once comely in a virgin's sight, -' Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching white; The blood, once fervid, now to cool began, And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man. I rode or walked as I was wont before, But now the bounding spirit was no more; A moderate pace would now my body heat; I walk of moderate length distress my feet.


I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime,
But said,—“The view is poor; we need not climb.
At a friend's mansion I began to dread
The cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed;
At home I felt a more decided taste,
And must have all things in my order placed.
I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less-
My dinner more; I learned to play at chess.
I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute
Was disappointed that I did not shoot.


My morning walks I now could bear to lose, And blessed the shower that gave me not to choose, In fact, I felt a languor stealing on; The active arm, the agile hand, were gone; Small daily actions into habits grew, And new dislike to forms and fashions new. I loved my trees in order to dispose; I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose; Told the same story oft—in short, began to prose!

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