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THE RETURN OF THE ADMIRAL.

And never, from that moment

Save one shudder through the sea, Saw we (or heard) the shark

That had follow'd in our lee!

FORBIDDEN LOVE.

How gallantly, how merrily,

We ride along the sea ! The morning is all sunshine,

The wind is blowing free : The billows are all sparkling,

And bounding in the light, Like creatures in whose sunny veins

The blood is running bright. All nature knows our triumph:

Strange birds about us sweep; Strange things come up to look at us,

The masters of the deep :
In our wake, like any servant,

Follows even the bold shark-
Oh, proud must be our admiral

Of such a bonny bark !

I LOVE thee! Oh, the strife, the pain,

The fiery thoughts that through me roll ! I love thee! Look-again, again!

O stars ! that thou couldst read my soul : I would thy bright bright eye could pierce

The crimson folds that hide my heart; Then wouldst thou find the serpent fierce

That stings memand will not depart!

Proud, proud, must be our admiral,

(Though he is pale to-day,) Of twice five hundred iron men,

Who all his nod obey; Who've fought for him, and conquer'd

Who've won, with sweat and gore, Nobility! which he shall have

Whene'er he touch the shore.
Oh! would I were our admiral,

To order, with a word
To lose a dozen drops of blood,

And straight rise up a lord !
I'd shout e'en to yon shark, there,

Who follows in our lee,
« Some day I'll make thee carry me,

Like lightning through the sea.”

Look love upon me, with thine eyes !

Yet, no-men's evil tongues are nigh: Look pity, then, and with thy sighs

Waste music on me-till I die! Yet, love not ! sigh not! Turn (thou must)

Thy beauty from me, sweet and kind; 'Tis fit that I should burn to dust

To death: because I am not blind! I love thee-and I live! The moon

Who sees me from her calm above, The wind who weaves her dim soft tune

About me, know how much I love! Naught else, save night and the lonely hour,

E'er heard my passion wild and strong; Even thou yet deem'st not of thy power,

Unless—thou readst aright my song!

A REPOSE.

-The admiral grew paler,

And paler as we flew : Still talk'd he to his officers,

And smiled upon his crew; And he look'd up at the heavens,

And he look'd down on the sea, And at last he spied the creature,

That kept following in our lee. He shook-'t was but an instant

For speedily the pride
Ran crimson to his heart,

Till all chances he defied :
It threw boldness on his forehead;

Gave firmness to his breath;
And he stood like some grim warrior

New risen up from death.

She sleeps among her pillows soft,

(A dove, now wearied with her flight) And all around, and all aloft,

Hang flutes and folds of virgin white: Her hair out-darkens the dark night,

Her glance outshines the starry sky; But now her locks are hidden quite,

And closed is her fringed eye!

That night, a horrid whisper

Fell on us where we lay; And we knew our old fine admiral

Was changing into clay; And we heard the wash of waters,

Though nothing could we see, And a whistle and a plunge

Among the billows in our lee ! Till dawn we watch'd the body

In its dead and ghastly sleep, And next evening at sunset,

It was slung into the deep!

She sleepeth : wherefore doth she start?

She sigheth: doth she feel no pain ? None, none! the dream is near her heart:

The spirit of sleep is in her brain. He cometh down like golden rain,

Without a wish, without a sound; He cheers the sleeper (ne'er in vain) Like May, when earth is winter-bound. All day within some cave he lies,

Dethroned from his nightly swayFar fading when the dawning skies

Our souls with wakening thoughts array. Two Spirits of might doth man obey ;

By each he's wrought, from each he learns : The one is Lord of life by day;

The other when starry night returns.

A STORM.

I DIE FOR THY SWEET LOVE.

I due for thy sweet love! The ground

Not panteth so for summer rain,
As I for one soft look of thine:

And yet--I sigh in vain !
A hundred men are near thee now-

Each one, perhaps, surpassing me:
But who doth feel a thousandth part

Of what I feel for thee?
They look on thee, as men will look

Who round the wild world laugh and rove: I only think how sweet 't would be

To die for thy sweet love!

7 A PETITION TO TIME.

The spirits of the mighty sea,

To-night are waken'd from their dreams,
And upward to the tempest flee,

Baring their foreheads where the gleams
Of lightning run, and thunders cry,
Rushing and raining through the sky!
The spirits of the sea are waging

Loud war upon the peaceful night,
And bands of the black winds are raging

Through the tempest blue and bright;
Blowing her cloudy hair to dust
With kisses, like a madman's lust!
What ghost now, like an Até, walketh

Earth-ocean-air ? and aye with time,
Mingled, as with a lover talketh ?

Methinks their colloquy sublime
Draws anger from the sky, which raves
Over the self-abandon'd waves !
Behold! like millions mass'd in battle,

The trembling billows headlong go,
Lashing the barren deeps, which rattle

In mighty transport till they grow
All fruitful in their rocky home,
And burst from phrensy into foam.
And look! where on the faithless billows

Lie women, and men, and children fair ; Some hanging, like sleep, to their swollen pillows,

With helpless sinews and streaming hair, And some who plunge in the yawning graves ! Ah! lives there no strength beyond the waves ? 'Tis said, the moon can rock the sea

From phrensy strange to silence mildTo sleep-to death :-But where is she,

While now her storm-born giant child Upheaves his shoulder to the skies? Arise, sweet planet pale-arise !

Touch us gently, Time !

Let us glide adown thy stream
Gently--as we sometimes glide

Through a quiet dream !
Humble voyagers are We,
Husband, wife, and children three
(One is lost-an angel, fled
To the azure overhead!)
Touch us gently, Time!

We've not proud nor soaring wings; Our ambition, our content,

Lies in simple things,
Humble voyagers are We,
O'er life's dim unsounded sea,
Seeking only some calm clime ;-
Touch us gently, gentle Time!

She cometh-lovelier than the dawn

In summer, when the leaves are greenMore graceful than the alarmed fawn,

Over his grassy supper seen: Bright quiet from her beauty falls, Until-again the tempest calls !

The supernatural storm-he waketh

Again, and lo! from sheets all white, Stands up unto the stars, and shaketh

Scorn on the jewell'd locks of night. He carries a ship on his foaming crown, And a cry, like hell, as he rushes down!

A CHAMBER SCENE. TREAD softly through these amorous rooms;

For every bough is hung with life,

And kisses in harmonious strife, Unloose their sharp and wing'd perfumes ! From Afric, and the Persian looms,

The carpet's silken leaves have sprung, And heaven, in its blue bounty, flung These starry flowers, and azure blooms. Tread softly! By a creature fair

The deity of love reposes,

His red lips open, like the roses Which' round his hyacinthine hair .

Hang in crimson coronals;

And passion fills the arched halls; And beauty floats upon the air, Tread softly-softly, like the foot

Of Winter, shod with fleecy snow, Who cometh white, and cold, and mute,

Lest he should wake the Spring below. Oh, look! for here lie Love and Youth,

Fair spirits of the heart and mind : Alas! that one should stray from truth;

And one-be ever, ever blind!

And so still soars from calm to storm,

The stature of the unresting sea :
So doth desire or wrath deform
Our else calm humanity-

Until at last we sleep,

And never wake nor weep, (Hush'd to death by some faint tune,) În our grave beneath the moon !

THE LAKE HAS BURST.

A PRAYER IN SICKNESS.

Send down thy wingéd angel, God !

Amid this night so wild; And bid him come where now we watch,

And breathe upon our child !

She lies upon her pillow, pale,

And moans within her sleep, Or wakeneth with a patient smile,

And striveth not to weep.

The lake has burst! The lake has burst! Down through the chasms the wild waves flee,

They gallop along

With a roaring song, . Away to the eager awaiting sea ! Down through the valleys, and over the rocks, And over the forests the flood runs free;

And wherever it dashes,

The oaks and the ashes Shrink, drop, and are borne to the hungry sea ! The cottage of reeds and the tower of stone, Both shaken to ruin, at last agree;

And the slave and his master

In one wide disaster
Are hurried like weeds to the scornful sea!
The sea-beast he tosseth his foaming mane ;
He bellows aloud to the misty sky,

And the sleep-buried thunder

Awakens in wonder,
And the lightning opens her piercing eye!
There is death above, there is death around,
There is death wheresoever the waters be,

There is nothing now doing

But terror and ruin,
On earth, and in air, and the stormy sea !

How gentle and how good a child

She is, we know too well, And dearer to her parents' hearts,

Than our weak words can tell.

We love-we watch throughout the night,

To aid, when need may be ; We hope—and have despair'd, at times;

But now we turn to Thee !

Send down thy sweet-sould angel, God!

Amid the darkness wild, And bid him soothe our souls to-night, - And heal our gentle child !

THE STORMY PETREL.

THE WEAVER'S SONG.

A THOUSAND miles from land are we,
Tossing about on the roaring sea;
From billow to bounding billow cast,
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast;
The sails are scatter'd abroad, like weeds,
The strong masts shake like quivering reeds,
The mighty cables, and iron chains,
The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,
They strain and they crack, and hearts like stone
Their natural hard proud strength disown.

Weave, brothers, weave !_Swiftly throw

The shuttle athwart the loom, And show us how brightly your flowers grow,

That have beauty but no perfume !
Come, show us the rose, with a hundred dyes,

The lily, that hath no spot ;
The violet, deep as your true love's eyes,
And the little forget-me-not.

Sing-sing, brothers! weave and sing!

"Tis good both to sing and to weave! 'Tis better to work than live idle ;

T is better to sing than grieve. Weave, brothers, weave!-Weave, and bid

The colours of sunset glow!
Let grace in each gliding thread be hid !

Let beauty about ye blow!
Let your skein be long, and your silk be fine,

And your hands both firm and sure,
And time nor chance shall your work untwine;
But all-like a truth-endure.

So-sing, brothers, &c.
Weave, brothers, weave !-Toil is ours;

But toil is the lot of men;
One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers,

One soweth the seed again!
There is not a creature, from England's king,

To the peasant that delves the soil,
That knows half the pleasures the seasons bring,
If he have not his share of toil !

So,-sing, brothers, &c.

Up and down! Up and down !
From the base of the wave to the billow's crown,
And amid the flashing and feathery foam
The stormy Pettel finds a home-
A home, if such a place may be,
For her who lives on the wide wide sea,
On the craggy ice, in the frozen air,
And only seeketh her rocky lair
To warm her young, and to teach them spring
At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing!

O'er the deep! O'er the deep! ffish sleep,
Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-
Outflying the blast and the driving rain,
The Petrel telleth her tale-in vain ;
For the mariner curseth the warning bird
Who bringeth him news of the storms unheard !
Ah ! thus does the prophet, of good or ill,
Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still;
Yet he ne'er falters :—So, Petrel ! spring
Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing !

THE SEA.

A DEEP AND A MIGHTY SHADOW.

A DEEP and a mighty shadow

Across my heart is thrown,
Like a cloud on a summer meadow

Where the thunder-wind hath blown!
The wild-rose, Fancy, dieth,
The sweet bird, Memory, flieth,

And leaveth me alone

Alone with my hopeless sorrow :

No other mate I know !
I strive to awake to-morrow;

But the dull words will not flow ! I pray-but my prayers are driven Aside, by the angry heaven,

And weigh me down with wo!

The sea! the sea! the open sea !
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide region's round;
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;
Or like a cradled creature lies.
I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea !
I am where I would ever be,
With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go :
If a storm should come, and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.
I love, ob ! how I love to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the sou'west blasts do blow.
I never was on the dull tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more,
And backward flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;
And a mother she was and is to me,
For I was born on the open sea!
The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born ;
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rollid,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcomed to life the ocean child !
I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a sailor's life,
With wealth to spend and a power to range,
But never have sought, nor sigh'd for change;
And death, whenever he comes to me,
Shall come on the wild unbounded sea !

I call on the past, to lend me

Its songs, to soothe my pain : I bid the dim future send me

A light from its eyes—in vain ! Naught comes; but a shrill cry starteth From Hope, as she fast departeth :

“I go, and come not again!".

THE QUADROON.

Say they that all beauty lies

In the paler maiden's hue ? Say they that all softness flies,

Save from the eyes of April blue ? Arise thou, like a night in June,

Beautiful Quadroon !

Come-all dark and bright, as skies

With the tender starlight hung! Loose the love from out thine eyes !

Loose the angel from thy tongue ! Let them hear heaven's own sweet tune,

Beautiful Quadroon !

SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH.

Tell them-Beauty (born above) · From no shade nor hue doth fly; All she asks is mind, is love,

And both upon thine aspect lieLike the light upon the moon,

Beautiful Quadroon !

AN EPITAPH.

SOFTLY Woo away her breath,

Gentle Death!
Let her leave thee with no strife,

Tender mournful, murmuring Life! She hath seen her happy day;

She hath had her bud and blossom ; Now she pales and shrinks away,

Earth, into thy gentle bosom.
She hath done her bidding here,

Angels dear!
Bear her perfect soul above,

Seraph of the skies-sweet Love! Good she was, and fair in youth,

And her mind was seen to soar,
And her heart was wed to truth;

Take her, then, for evermore-
For ever-evermore!

He died, and left the world behind !

His once wild heart is cold !
His once keen eye is quell’d and blind!

What more ?-His tale is told.
He came, and, baring his heaven-bright thought,

He earn'd the base world's ban : And-having vainly lived and taught, · Gave place to a meaner man!

TO THE SOUTH WIND. O sweet South Wind! Long hast thou linger'd midst those islands fair, Which lie, enchanted, on the Indian deep, Like sea-maids all asleep, Charm'd by the cloudless sun and azure air! O sweetest southern wind! Pause here awhile, and gently now unbind Thy dark rose-crowned hair! Wilt thou not unloose now, In this, the bluest of all hours, Thy passion-colour'd flowers ? Rest; and let fall the fragrance from thy brow On Beauty's parted lips and closed eyes, And on her cheeks, which crimson-liked the skies; And slumber on her bosum, white as snow, Whilst starry midnight flies ! We, whom the northern blast Blows on, from night till morn, from morn to eve, Hearing thee, sometimes grieve That our poor summer's day not long may last : And yet, perhaps, 'twere well We should not ever dwell With thee, sweet spirit of the sunny south; But touch thy odorous mouth Once, and be gone unto our blasts again, And their bleak welcome, and our wintry snow; And arm us (by enduring) for that pain Which the bad world sends forth, and all its wo!

REMEMBERED LOVE. On power of love! so fearful and so fairLife of our life on earth, yet kin to careOh! thou day-dreaming spirit who dost look Upon the future as the charmed book Of Fate were open'd to thine eyes aloneThou who dost cull, from moments stolen and gone Into eternity, memorial things, To deck the days to come-thy revelings Were glorious and beyond all others. Thou Didst banquet upon beauty once; and now The ambrosial feast is ended! Let it be Enough to say “ It was." Oh! upon me, From thy o'ershadowing wings ethereal, Shake odorous airs, so may my senses all Be spell-bound to thy service, beautiful power, And on the breath of every coming hour | Send me faint tidings of the things that were.

KINGS.

METHINKS There's something lonely in the state of kings! None dare come near them. As the eagle, poised Upon his sightless throne in upper air, Scares gentle birds away, so kings (cut off From human kindred by the curse of power) Are shunn'd and live alone. Who dare come near The region of a king? There is a wall (Invisible, indeed, yet strong and high) Which fences kings from close approach of men. They live respected-oh, that chest “respect!" As if the homage that abases others Could comfort him that has't. Alone-alone! Prison'd in ermine and a velvet chairShut out from hope, (the height being all attain'd,) Yet touch'd by terrors—what can soothe a king!

MUSIC.

I SEE small difference 'Twixt one sound and its next. All seem akin And run on the same feet, ever.

Peace! Thou want'st One heavenly sense, and speak'st in ignorance. Seest thou no differing shadows which divide The rose and poppy ? 'Tis the same with sounds. There's not a minute in the round of time [space But's hinged with different music. In that small Between the thought and its swift utteranceEre silence buds to sound-the angels, listening, Hear infinite varieties of song! And they who turn the lightning-rapid spheres Have flown an evening's journey.

NIGHT THOUGHTS. 'Tis night-still night! The murmuring world

lies still ! All things which are lie still and whisper not; The owl, the bat, the clock which strikes the hour And summons forgetful man to think of heaven, The midnight cricket on the ashy hearth, Are quiet, dumb! Hope, Fear, lie drown'd in dreams; And conscience, calmer than a baby's breath, Murders the heart no more. Who goes? 'Tis naught, Save the bird echo, who comes back to me Afraid o' the silence. Love! art thou asleep? Rose o' the night, on whom the soft dew lies, Here come I, sweet, mocking the nightingale, To sing of endless love, passionate pain, And wishes that know no rest!

FLOWERS

We have left behind us The riches of the meadows, and now come To visit the virgin primrose where she dwells, Midst harebells and the wild-wood hyacinths. 'Tis there she keeps her court. Dost see yon bank The sun is kissing? Near-go near! for there, ('Neath those broad leaves, amidst yon straggling Immaculate odours from the violet (grasses,) Spring up for ever: Like sweet thoughts that come Wing'd from the maiden fancy, and fly off In music to the skies, and there are lost, These ever-steaming odours seek the sun And fade in the light he scatters.

HAPPINESS. A month ago I was happy! No, Not happy, yet encircled by deep joy, Which, though 'twas all around, I could not touch. But it was ever thus with Happiness: It is the gay to-morrow of the mind That never comes.

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