Stick to thy post, and leave these things to men. I trust, my friends, before we sail again,
To touch at Egypt, Cyprus, or the north,
And having learnt meantime our prisoner's worth, What friends he has, and wealth to what amount, To turn this god-send to a right account.'
He said; and hauling up the sail and mast,
Drew the tight vessel stiff before the blast;
The sailors, under arms, observe their prize,
When lo, strange doings interrupt their eyes;
For first, a fountain of sweet-smelling wine
Came gushing o'er the deck with sprightly shine,
And odours, not of earth, their senses took;
The pallid wonder spread from look to look;
And then a vine-tree over-ran the sail,
Its green arms tossing to the pranksome gale;
And then an ivy, with a flowering shoot,
Ran up the mast in rings, and kiss'd the fruit,
Which here and there the dipping vine let down;
On every oar there was a garland crown.—
But now the crew call'd out To shore! To shore!'
When, leaping backward with an angry roar,
The dreadful stranger to a lion turn'd;
His glaring eyes beneath the hatches burn'd:
Then rushing forward, he became a bear,
With fearful change bewildering their despair;
And then again a lion, ramping high
From seat to seat, and looking horribly.
Heap'd at the stern, and scrambling all along,
The trembling wretches round the Master throng,
Who calmly stood, for he had done no wrong.
Oh, at that minute, to be safe on land!
But now, in his own shape, the God's at hand,
And spurning first the Captain from the side,
The rest leap'd after in the plunging tide;
For one and all, as they had done the same,
The same deserv'd; and dolphins they became.
The God then turning to the Master, broke In happy-making smiles, and stoutly spoke :
'Be of good courage, blest companion mine; Bacchus am I, the roaring God of Wine; And well shall this day be, for thee and thine.'
And so, all reverence and all joy to thee, Son of the sparkle-smiling Semele !
Must never bard forget thee in his song,
Who mak'st it flow so sweetly and so strong.
DEAR BARNES, whose native taste, solid and clear,
The throng of life has strengthen❜d without harm,
You know the rural feeling, and the charm
That stillness has for a world-fretted ear :-
'Tis now deep working all about me here
With thousand tiny hushings, like the swarm
Of atom bees, or fairies in alarm,
Or noise of numerous bliss from distant sphere.
This charm our evening hours duly restore,—
Nought heard through all our little, lull'd abode,
Save the crisp fire, or leaf of book turn'd o'er,
Or watch-dog, or the ring of frosty road.
Wants there no other sound then?-Yes, one more,— The voice of friendly visiting, long owed.
SWEET upland, to whose walks with fond repair
Out of thy western slope I took my rise
Day after day, and on these feverish eyes
Met the moist fingers of the bathing air,-
If health, unearned of thee, I may not share,
Keep it, I pray thee, where my memory lies,
In thy green lanes, brown dells, and breezy skies,
Till I return, and find thee doubly fair.
Wait then my coming, on that lightsome land,
Health, and the Joy that out of nature springs,
And Freedom's air-blown locks ;-but stay with me,
Friendship, frank entering with the cordial hand,
And Honour, and the Muse with growing wings,
And Love Domestic, smiling equably.
Surrey Jail, Aug. 27, 1813.
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