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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 free,


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

bears away!

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.


WELCOME, wild North-easter!

Shame it is to see
Odes to every zephyr ;

Ne'er a verse to thee.

Welcome, black North-easter!

O’er the German foam ;
O'er the Danish moorlands,

From thy frozen home.
Tired we are of summer,

Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming,

Hot and breathless air. Tired of listless dreaming,

Through the lazy day :
Jovial wind of winter

Turn us out to play!
Sweep the golden reed-beds;

Crisp the lazy dyke ;
Hunger into madness

Every plunging pike.
Fill the lake with wild fowl;

Fill the marsh with snipe ;
While on dreary moorlands

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,
While our skates are ringing

O'er the frozen streams.
Let the luscious South-wind

Breathe in lovers' sighs,
While the lazy gallants

Bask in ladies' eyes.
What does he but soften

Heart alike and pen ?
'Tis the hard gray winter

Breeds hard Englishmen.
What's the soft South-wester ?

'Tis the ladies' breeze,
Bringing home their true loves

Out of all the seas :
But the black North-easter,

Through the snow-storm hurled,
Drives out English hearts of oak

Seaward round the world.
Come, as came our fathers,

Heralded by thee,
Conquering from the eastward,

Lords by land and sea.
Come; and strong within us

Stir the Vikings' blood;
Bracing brain and sinew;

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!

I LOVE to look on a scene like this,

Of wild and careless play,
And persuade myself that I am not old,

And my locks are not yet gray ;
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,

And it makes his pulses fly,
To catch the thrill of a happy voice

And the light of a pleasant eye.
I have walked the earth for fourscore years;

And they say that I am old;
And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,

And my years are well-nigh told.
It is very true, it is very true;

I'm old, and “I bide my time ;"
But my heart will leap at a scene like this,

And I half renew my prime.
Play on, play on; I am with you there,

In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,

And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,

And I whoop the smothered call,
And my feet slip on the reedy floor,

And I care not for the fall.
I am willing to die when my time shall come,

And I shall be glad to go ;
For the world, at best, is a weary place,

And my pulse is getting low;

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