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But no mortal power shall now
That crew and vessel save;
They are shrouded, as they go,
In a Hurricane of snow,
And the track beneath her prow

Is their grave!

There are spirits of the deep,
Who, when the warrant's given,
Rise raging from their sleep
On rock or mountain steep
Or 'mid thunder-clouds that keep

The wrath of Heaven.

High the eddying mists are whirld,
As they rear their giant forms,
See! their tempest-flag's unfurl'd,
Fierce they sweep the prostrate world,
And the withering Lightning's hurl'd

Through the storms.

O'er Swilly's rocks they soar,
Commission'd watch to keep;
Down, down, with thund'ring roar,
The exulting Demons pour,-
The Saldanha floats no more

On the deep !

The dreadful 'hcst is past;
All is silent as the grave;
One shriek was first and last,
Scarce a death-sob drank the blast,
As sank her towering mast

'Neath the wave.


Oh! vain and impious boast;
Go, mark, presumptuous slaves,
Where He who sinks or saves,
Scars the sands with countless graves

Round your coast !

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NOTHING can be conceived more romantic than the situation of the ever-to-be-lamented Mungo Park, when, on the night of the First of May, 1796, he found himself, in the company of naked savages, on the banks of that branch of the Senegal which bears the name of the Ba-Fing, or Black River. Above the benighted wanderer shone the brilliant stars of an African sky, “glowing like living sapphires ;” around him stood, in their majesty, the everlasting bills. Surely, in that hour, he must have felt, that

“ The estate of man would be indeed forlorn,

If false conclusions of the reasoning power
Made the eye blind, or closed the passages
Through which the ear converses with the heart !"

Surely amid those grand solitudes of nature

“ His soul, the hidden Being of his Life,

Receiv'd a shock of awful consciousness;
In that calm season, when those lofty hills,
At night's approach, stood 'neath th' unclouded sky,
That rested on their circumambient walls,
A temple framing of dimensions vast,
And yet not too enormous for the sound
Of human anthems, choral song, or burst
Sublime of instrumental harmony,
To glorify the Eternal! And if these
Did never break the stillness that prevails
Here,-if the solemn nightingale be mute,
And the soft woodlark here did never chant
Her vespers, Nature fails not to provide
Impulse and utterance. The whispering air
Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights,
And blind recesses of the cavern'd rocks;
The little rills and waters numberless,
Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes
With the loud streams; and often at the hour
When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard,
Within the circuit of this fabric huge,
One voice—the solitary raven flying
Athwart the concave of the dark-blue dome,
Unseen, perchance above all power of sight-
An iron knell ! which echoes from afar
Faint-and still fainter—as the cry with which
The wanderer accompanies her flight



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