VERSES

JUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ.

I AM monarch of all I survey

My right there is none to dispute; From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O Solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach;

I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speechI start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain

My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestowed upon man! Oh, had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truthMight learn from the wisdom of age,

And be cheered by the sallies of youth.

Religion! What treasure untolu

Resides in that heavenly word!More precious than silver and gold,

Or all that this earth can afford; But the sound of the church-going bel These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sighed at the sound of a knell,

Or smiled when a sabbath appeared.

Ye winds that have inade 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?
Oh tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a 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.

WILLIAM COWPER

ABOU BEN ADHEM.

598

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace.
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold :
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?"-The vision raised its
head,

And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou; "Nay, not so,"

Replied the angel.—Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God

had blessed

And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest! LEIGH HUNT.

THE STEAMBOAT.

SEE how yon flaming herald treads
The ridged and rolling waves,
As, crashing o'er their crested heads,
She bows her surly slaves!
With foam before and fire behind,

She rends the clinging sea,
That flies before the roaring wind,

Beneath her hissing lee.

The morning spray, like sea-born flowers

With heaped and glistening bells, Falls round her fast in ringing showers,

With every wave that swells; And, flaming o'er the midnight deep,

In lurid fringes thrown,

The living gems of ocean sweep
Along her flashing zone.

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel,

And smoking torch on high,
When winds are loud, and billows reel,
She thunders, foaming, by!
When seas are silent and serene

With even beam she glides,

The sunshine glimmering through the green That skirts her gleaming sides.

Now, like a wild nymph, far apart
She veils her shadowy form,

The beating of her restless heart

Still sounding through the storm; Now answers, like a courtly dame,

The reddening surges o'er, With flying scarf of spangled flame,

The pharos of the shore.

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep,

Who trims his narrowed sail;
To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep

Her broad breast to the gale;

And many a foresail, scooped and strained,
Shall break from yard and stay,
Before this smoky wreath hath stained
The rising mist of day.

Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud,
I see yon quivering mast-

The black throat of the hunted cloud
Is panting forth the blast!

An hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff
The giant surge shall fling
His tresses o'er yon pennon-staff,
White as the sea-bird's wing!

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep!
Nor wind nor wave shall tire
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap
With floods of living fire;

Sleep on-and when the morning light
Streams o'er the shining bay,

Oh, think of those for whom the night Shall never wake in day!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLME

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands: The smith-a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long; His face is like the tan,

His brow is wet with honest sweat-He earns whate'er he can;

And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow-
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children, coming home from school, Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar.

And catch the burning sparks, that fly

Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys;

'Tis blinding white, 't is blasting bright-the high sun shines not so!

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show!

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row

Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe!

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow

Sinks on the anvil-all about, the faces fiery grow:

"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap out!" bang, bang! the sledges go; Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low;

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow;

The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders strew

The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow;

And, thick and loud, the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters! leap out, and lay on load!

Let's forge a goodly anchor-a bower thick

and broad;

For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode;

And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road

The low reef roaring on her lea; the roll of ocean poured

From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board;

The bulwarks down; the rudder gone; the boats stove at the chains; But courage still, brave mariners—the bower yet remains!

And not an inch to flinch he deigns-save when ye pitch sky high;

Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing-here am I!"

Swing in your strokes in order! let foot and hand keep time;

any steeple's chime.

what a glow!

let the burthen be,