And if so fair, from vanity as free; As firm in friendship, and as fond in love. Tell them, though 't is an awful thing to die ('T was even to thee,) yet, the dread path once trod, Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high, And bids the pure in heart behold their God. But you know it can be angry, Are flying at its breast; And if you like to listen, And draw your chairs around, The merry boats of Brixham But when the year grows darker, Then as the wind grew fiercer, The women's cheeks grew white, – It was fiercer in the twilight, The strong clouds set themselves like ice, The blackness of the darkness Was something to be felt. The storm, like an assassin, And struck a hundred boats adrift They meet, they crash,-God keep the men! God give a moment's light! There is nothing but the tumult, And the tempest and the night. The men on shore were anxious, — They took the grandame's blanket, They took the baby's pillow, Who could not say them no; And they heaped a great fire on the pier, If they were heaping a bonfire, And, fed with precious food, the flame Shone bravely on the black, Till a cry rang through the people,"A boat is coming back!" Staggering dimly through the fog, They see and then they doubt; But, when the first prow strikes the pier, Then all along the breadth of flame With, Child, here comes your father!" 66 Or, Wife, is this your man?" And faint feet touch the welcome shore, And kisses drop from frozen lips, So, one by one, they struggled in, Who were too cold with sorrow And this is what the men must do, So when you see a Brixham boat Like light upon her sails. M. B. S. Brockley Coomb. LINES COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795. ITH many a pause and oft-reverted eye WITH I climb the Coomb's ascent; sweet songsters near Warble in shade their wildwood melody; Far off the unvarying cuckoo soothes my ear. The yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark-green boughs My gaze! Proud towers, and cots more dear to me, |