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Blue lights and red lights,
And mention of dead lights,
And shrouds made a theme of, O
Things horrid to dream of—
And buoys in the water
To fear all exhort her;
Her friend no Leander;
Herself no sea gander,
And ne'er a cork jacket
On board of the packet;
The breeze still a-stiffening,
The trumpet quite deafening;
Thoughts of repentance,
And doomsday and sentence'
Every thing sinister,
Not a church minister—
Pilot a blunderer,
Coral reefs under her,
Ready to sunder her;
Trunks tipsy-topsy,
The ship in a dropsy;
Waves oversurging her,
Sirens a dirgeing her,
Sharks all expecting her,
Sword-fish dissecting her,
Crabs with their hand-vices
Punishing land vices;
Sea-dogs and unicorns,
Things with no puny horns,
Mermen carnivorous—
“Good Lord deliver us!”

The rest of the voyage was occupied, excepting one bright interval, with the sea malady and sea horrors. We were

off Flamborough Head. A heavy swell, the consequence of some recent storm to the Eastward, was rolling right before the wind upon the land:—and, once under the shadow of the bluff promotory, we should lose all the advantages of a saving Westerly breeze. Even the seamen looked anxious: but the passengers (save one) were in despair. They were, already, bones of contention, in their own misgivings, to the myriads of cormorants and water-fowl inhabiting that stupendous cliff. Miss Oliver alone was sanguine :-she was all nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles;–her cheeriness increased in proportion with our dreariness. Even the dismal pitching of the vessel could not disturb her unseasonable levity;-it was like a lightening before death—but, at length the mystery was explained. She had springs of comfort that we knew not of Not brandy—for that we shared in common;–nor supplications—for those we had all applied to:--but her ears, being jealously vigilant of whatever passed between the mariners, she had overheard from the captain—and it had all the sound, to her, of a comfortable promise—that “if the wind held, we should certainly go on shore.”



My temples throb, my pulses boil,
I’m sick of Song, and Ode, and Ballad—

So, Thyrsis, take the Midnight Oil
And pour it on a lobster Salad.

My brain is dull, my sight is foul,
I cannot write a verse, or read–

Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl
And let us have a Lark instead.



I saw, through his eyelids, the might of his eyes.


Those waters you hear,
Yet see not—they flow so invisibly clear.


Father of light—and she, its mother mild.

Shedder of secret tears
Felt upon unseen pillows—shade of Death !


Sometimes she riseth from her shroud
Like the pale apparition of a sun.


That bantam Mercury, with feathered heels.


She sighed

And paleness came, like moonlight, o'er her face

She was like an angel in mosaic, Made up of many-colored virtues.

A friendless heart is like a hollow shell,
That sighs o'er its own emptiness.

He lay with a dead passion on his face,
Like a storm stiffen’d in ice.

Sometimes Hope Singeth so plaintively, 'tis like Despair. Her smile can make dull Melancholy grow Transparent to the secret hope below.


Surely this is the birthday of no grief,
That dawns so pleasantly along the skies

The lusty Morn Cometh, all flushed, and singing, from a feast Of wine and music in the odorous East.

The sun unglues The crimson leaves of Morning, that doth lie, Like a streaked rosebud in the orient sky.


My heart’s wound up just like a watch,
As far as springs will take—

It wants but one more evil turn,
And then the cords will break |


IT was a gloomy evening. The sun had set, angry and threatening, lighting up the horizon with lurid flame and flakes of blood-red—slowly quenched by slants of distant rain, dense and dark as segments of the old deluge. At last the whole sky was black, except the low driving grey scud, amidst which faint streaks of lightning wandered capriciously towards their appointed aim, like young firefiends playing on their errands. “There will be a storm 1" whispered Nature herself, as the crisp fallen leaves of autumn started up with a hollow rustle, and began dancing a wild round, with a whirlwind of dust, like some frantic orgy, ushering in a revolution. “There will be a storm s” I echoed, instinctively looking round for the nearest shelter, and making towards it at my best pace. At such times the proudest heads will bow to very low lintels; and setting dignity against a ducking, I very willingly condescended to stoop into “The Plough.” It was a small hedge alehouse, too humble for the refinement of a separate parlor. One large tap-room served for all comers, gentle or simple, if gentlefolks, except from stress of weather, ever sought such a place of entertainment. Its scanty accommodations were even meaner than usual: the Plough had suffered from the hardness of the

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