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And the hollow wind is our music brave, and none can
bolder be Than the hoarse-tongued tempest raving o'er a proud
and swelling sea! Our bark is dancing on the waves, its tall masts
quivering bend Before the gale, which hails us now with the hollo of a
friend; And its prow is sheering merrily the upcurled billows'
foam, While our hearts, with throbbing gladness, cheer old
Ocean as our home! Our eagle-wings of might we stretch before the gallant
wind, And we leave the tame and sluggish earth a dim mean
And weeck behin the un
We shoot into the untracked deep, as earth-freed
spirits soar, Like stars of fire through boundless space—through
realms without a shore ! Lords of this wide-spread wilderness of waters, we
bound free, The haughty elements alone dispute our sovereignty ; No landmark doth our freedom let, for no law of man
can mete The sky which arches o'er our head-the waves which
kiss our feet ! The warrior of the land may back the wild horse, in
his pride; But a fiercer steed we dauntless breast—the untamed
ocean tide ; And a nobler tilt our bark careers, as it quells the
. saucy wave, While thé Herald storm peals o'er the deep the glories
of the brave. Hurrah ! Hurrah! the wind is up-it bloweth fresh
And every cord, instinct with life, pipes loud its fearless
glee ; Big swell the bosomed sails with joy, and they madly
kiss the spray, As proudly, through the foaming surge, the Sea-King
DEATH OF WARWICK.-Shakspeare. My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows That I must yield my body to the earth, And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe. Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge, Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle ; Under whose shade the ramping lion slept ; Whose top-branch overpeered Jove's spreading tree, And kept low shrubs from winter's powerful wind. These eyes, that now are dimmed with death's black
veil, Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun To search the secret treasons of the world : The wrinkles in my brows, now filled with blood, Were likened oft to kingly sepulchres; For who lived king but I could dig his grave ? And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow? Lo, now my glory smeared in dust and blood ! My parks, my walks, my manors that I had, Even now forsake me; and of all my lands Is nothing left me but my body's length ! Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust ? And, live we how we can, yet die we must.
ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND.—Kingsley.
WELCOME, wild North-easter!
Shame it is to see
Ne'er a verse to thee.
Welcome, black North-easter!
O’er the German foam ;
From thy frozen home.
Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming,
Hot and breathless air. Tired of listless dreaming,
Through the lazy day :
Turn us out to play!
Crisp the lazy dyke ;
Every plunging pike.
Fill the marsh with snipe ;
Lonely curlew pipe. Through the black fir-forest
Thunder harsh and dry, Shattering down the snow flakes
Off the curdled sky. Hark! The brave North-easter!
Breast-high lies the scent, On by holt and headland,
Over heath and bent. Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Through the sleet and snow. Who can over-ride you ?
Let the horses go ! Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Down the roaring blast; You shall see a fox die
Ere an hour be past. Go! and rest to-morrow,
Hunting in your dreams,
O'er the frozen streams.
Breathe in lovers' sighs,
Bask in ladies' eyes.
Heart alike and pen ?
Breeds hard Englishmen.
'Tis the ladies' breeze,
Out of all the seas :
Through the snow-storm hurled,
Seaward round the world.
Heralded by thee,
Lords by land and sea.
Stir the Vikings' blood;
Blow, thou wind of God !
THE WAR HORSE.—Dryden. The fiery courser, when he hears from far The sprightly trumpets and the shouts of war, Pricks up his ears, and trembling with delight, Shifts place, and paws, and hopes the promised fight : On his right shoulder his thick mane reclined Ruffles at speed, and dances in the wind.
Eager he stands,—then, starting with a bound,
He spurns the turf, and shakes the solid ground. Fire from his eyes, clouds from his nostrils flow,
He bears his rider headlong on the foe!
Of wild and careless play,
And my locks are not yet gray ;
And it makes his pulses fly,
And the light of a pleasant eye.
And they say that I am old;
And my years are well-nigh told.
I'm old, and “I bide my time ;"
And I half renew my prime.
In the midst of your merry ring;
And the rush of the breathless swing.
And I whoop the smothered call,
And I care not for the fall.
And I shall be glad to go ;
And my pulse is getting low;