Now I have taken my course to the shore,

Where yellow sand covers the chrystal and amber; Serenely I dwell with the rosy-mouth'd shell,

Where limpets are thick and the tiny crabs clamber.

A young child is roving, and soon he espies

My rich curling threads as they mount in the spray; He steps 'mid the green stones, and eagerly cries, "Oh! that beautiful Seaweed, I'll bear it away."

All earnestly gazing, he stretches to reach,
But a swift-spreading wave has roll'd over the beach;
It hath carried me back from the sun-lighted strand,
And the young child beholds me far, far from the land.

He runs through the ebb-surf, but vain the endeavour,
I am gone, my fair boy, I am gone, and for ever;
Thou wilt covet full many bright things, but take heed,
They elude not your grasp like the pretty Seaweed.

Now I am met in my wide career
By the ice-pile driving fast,
A broad and sailless boat rides near,
And a lithe rope runneth past.

Hark, that plunge! who cometh here,

With long and purple trail;

"Tis the Sea King pierced with the jagged spear,-
The cleaving and furious whale.

He huggeth me tight in his downward flight,
On his writhing fin I go;

While his blood pours out with torrent spout,
And he gasps with snorting blow..

Weltering in his ocean halls,

He dyeth the coral deeper,
And wallows against the mossy walls
With the lunge of a frantic sleeper.

He hurls me off with floundering pang,
I am caught on a glittering shrub,
And there I merrily dangle and hang

O'er the head of the grampus cub.

The star-fish comes with his quenchless light,
And a cheerful guest is he;

For he shineth by day and he shineth by night,
In the darkest and deepest sea.

I wind in his arms and on we glide,
Leagues and leagues afar,

Till we rest again where the dolphins hide
In the caverns roof'd with spar.

Gems of all hues for a king to choose,

With coins and coffers are round;

The wealth and weight of an Eastern freight, In the Seaweed's home are found.

Here are pearls for maidens' curls

Here is gold for man;

But the wave is a true and right safe bar,
And its murmur a dreaded ban.

I revel and rove 'mid jewell'd sheen,
Till the nautilus travels by,
And off with him I gaily swim,
To look at the torrid sky.

I rise where the bark is standing still,

In the face of a full red sun,

While out of her seams, and over her beams, The trickling pitch drops run.

Oh! worse is the groan that breaketh there, Than the burst of a drowning cry;

They have bread in store, and flesh to spare,
But the water-casks are dry.

Many a lip is gaping for drink,
And madly calling for rain;

And some hot brains are beginning to think
Of a messmate's open'd vein.

Nautilus, nautilus, let us begone,
For I like not this to look upon.

Now about the island bay,

I am quietly at play;

Now the fisher's skiff I'm round;

Now I lave the rocky mound;
Now I swiftly float aground,
Where the surge and pebbles rustle;
Where young naked feet tread o'er
My dripping branches to explore,
For spotted egg and purple muscle.

The tide recedes-the wave comes not
To bear me from this barren spot

Here I lie for many a day,
Crisp'd and shrivell'd in the ray,
Till I wither, shrink, and crack,
And my green stem turneth black.

See! there cometh sturdy men,
But they were no sailor blue,
No kerchief decks their tawny necks,
They form no smart and gallant crew.
Hark! there cometh merry strains,
'Tis not music that I know;
It does not tell of anchor chains,

Blending with the "Yo, heave yo!" "Tis my death-dirge they are singing, And thus the lightsome troll is ringing.

The Vraic! the Vraic! oh! the Vraic shall be
The theme of our chanting mirth,

For we come to gather the grass of the sea
To quicken the grain of the earth.

That grass it groweth where no man moweth,
All thick, and rich, and strong,

And it meeteth our hand on the desolate strand,
Ready for rake and prong.

So gather and carry, for often we need

The nurturing help of the good Seaweed.

The Vraic! the Vraic! come, take a farewell
Of your boundless and billowy home,
No more will you dive in the fathomless cell,
Or leap in the sparkling foam;

Far from the petrel, the gannet, and grebe,
Thou shalt be scatter'd abroad;

And carefully strewn on the mountain glebe,
To add to the harvest hoard.

The land must be till'd, the tiller must feed,

And the corn must be help'd by the good Seaweed.

The Vraic! the Vraic! pile it on to the fire,
Let it crackle and smoke in the wind;
And a smouldering heap of treasure we'll keep
In the ashes it leaveth behind.

On to the furrow, on to the field,

Dust to dust is the claim;

"Tis what the prince and pilgrim yield,
And the Seaweed giveth the same.

The land must be till'd, the tiller must feed,
But he'll mingle at last with the good Seaweed.

you

Still less did he

MR. FINNIKIN RASHLY did not quite relish the question, "Did ever hunt?" put to him by Miss Isabella Canterwell. like the tone in which it was put, or the smile, the very peculiar smile, which accompanied it. However, he had answered the question by a knowing look, and an assertion that, although he had not as yet ventured to follow the hounds, he meant to have a day with the "Old Wiltshire," and having made the assertion, he had nothing to do but to fulfil his promise.

66

Peter," said he, "be uncommon particular in brushing my boots, and in cleaning the tops; I am going hunting to-morrow-at least I am going down by rail to be ready for the next day; and if I have a prejudice, it is decidedly against appearing in the field without having every thing cummy-fo."

"Don't the reg'lar swells ride in red?" said Peter.

“Pink, Peter, pink; it used to be called scarlet, but it is the fashion to call it pink now."

"Ah!" said Peter, "I've heard of the pink of fashion' before, but I never knew till now that it meant an 'unting coat."

"What a fool you are, Peter; but what could put a pink coat into your head ?"

"This here pictorial tailor's bill or illustrated London fashions," replied Peter, as he pulled out of his pocket a large sheet of paper, in which were engraved male beings of all ages, in the dresses which some advertising tailor deemed most suitable to them. "There, you see, sir, there's the morning sir toot' and 'the evening costume,' and there's the prime bang away shooting coat,' and there at the bottom is the correct cut-away for Meltonians.'"

"Ay, and deuced well that tall handsome chap looks in it," said Finnikin, admiring an effeminate looking individual, depicted in a very knowing hat, an enormous striped shawl, a scarlet coat, with a waist about as large as a bumble-bee's, very loose leathers, and enormous black Horse-guard's boots, with feet so small, that a little girl of six years of age would never have been able to get them on. "That's the correct dodge, I know, but I am not provided with pink, and must put up with plain clothes for once. It don't much matter, as nobody knows me where I am going."

Peter continued to admire the tailor's fashionable figures for some time--and then, after playing with his right ear for a moment, looked

at his master very defferentially, and suggested "that he thought he could purvide a pink if—”

"If what?" asked his master, putting his fingers into his waistcoatpocket, and playing with two sovereigns.

"No it ain't nothing to do with money," said Peter, reading his master's thoughts; "I could have the loan of it if—if you would not mind wearing a royal mailer.”

"A what?" said Finnikin, completely at fault.

"A prime scarlet, with crowns on the buttons, as poor old Jem used to have given to him every year, when there were lots of mails and no rails; this is in prime condition; for the coach was taken off the road in July, and he had it new on the 4th of June. He takes great care of it, because it reminds him of the good old times."

"Confound your impudence, sir," said Finnikin, looking highly indignant. "If I have a prejudice, it is decidedly against wearing a cast off livery coat."

Well," said Peter, "if it is a livery coat, its the royal livery, and they'll only fancy you belong to the Queen's stag-hounds or Prince Albert's harriers."

Mr. Rashly thought there was something in that; but when he found, by questioning Peter, that Jem's coat was a straight one, and not a cutaway, or even a swallow-tail; and moreover, had a great deal of gold lace upon its collar and cuffs, he had sense enough to decline applying for the loan of it.

Peter was grieved at the failure of his suggestion, but upon examining his pictorial tailor's bill still further, he saw an announcement at the foot of it that "Downey and Sons kept a large assortment of every style suitable to all sizes and figures." He pointed it out to his master, and in a few minutes Finnikin might have been seen hurrying into the City to the establishment of Downey and Sons. He made known his wishes by pointing with his whip-handle to one of the figures exhibited in the shop, and desired that one of the coats should be shown to him immediately, suitable to his size and figure.

A large bundle was placed on the counter, and when the canvass covering was removed, Finny was delighted to see a really large assortment of brilliant scarlets, with bright buttons of the reynard pattern upon them. He tried them on one after another, but, oh! horror! none of the small ones had quite enough middle for his little but pudgy figure.

Downey and Sons assured him that "it did not matter whether the coat would button or not, as it was the fashion with Count Buckskin and the Prince, for whom they always made, to ride with the coat open to show the pattern and cut of the vest."

Finny looked at them and then at the picture, in which the fine young man was represented, closely buttoned up. They saw his meaning, and merely said that "there the Count's coat was shown as but

toned."

Finny looked at himself in a long glass, and thought that he became the coat very much. He thought, too, that Miss Isabella Canterwell would have but a mean opinion of a man who did not hunt in pink— that settled his doubts.