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As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK
DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF
My right there is none to dispute ;
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
That sages have seen in thy face?
Than reign in this horrible place.
I must finish my journey alone,
I start at the sound of my own.
My form with indifference see ;
Their tameness is shocking to me.
Divinely bestowed upon man,
How soon would I taste you again !
In the ways of religion and truth,
And be cheered by the sallies of youth.
Religion ! what treasures untold
Reside in that heavenly word ! More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford ! But the sound of the church-going bell,
These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sighed at the sound of a knell,
Or smiled when the Sabbath appeared.
Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report,
Of a land I shall visit no more ! My friends do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me? O tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.
How fleet is the glance of the mind !
Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there; But alas ! recollection at hand
Soon hurries me back to despair.
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair ; Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought ! Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.
SOME MURMUR WHEN THEIR SKY IS
SOME murmur, when their sky is clear
And wholly bright to view,
In their great heaven of blue;
If but one streak of light,
The darkness of their night.
In palaces are hearts that ask,
In discontent and pride,
And all good things denied ;
How Love has in their aid
Such rich provision made.
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.-Campbell.
YE mariners of England !
The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, And ocean was their grave; Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow.
Britannia needs no bulwark,
The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow !
ODE TO DUTY.- Wordsworth.
STERN daughter of the voice of God!