Which never toil nor spin, yet show And then along the fragrant hills And now I see one perfect face, Walter Mitchell. BORN in Nantucket, Mass., 1826. TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE. HE weather-leech of the topsail shivers, THE The bowlines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken, The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, And the waves with the coming squall-cloud blacken. Open one point on the weather-bow, Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head. I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye The ship bends lower before the breeze, As her broadside fair to the blast she lays; And she swifter springs to the rising seas, As the pilot calls, “Stand by for stays!" It is silence all, as each in his place, With the gathered coil in his hardened hands, By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace, Waiting the watchword impatient stands. And the light on Fire Island Head draws near, No time to spare! It is touch and go; And the captain growls, "Down helm! hard down!" As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw, While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's frown. High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray, As we meet the shock of the plunging sea; With the swerving leap of a startled steed The dangerous shoals on the lee recede, And the headland white we have left behind. The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse, And belly and tug at the groaning cleats; The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps; And thunders the order, "Tacks and sheets!" 'Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew, Hisses the rain of the rushing squall: The sails are aback from clew to clew, And now is the moment for "Mainsail, haul!" And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy, By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung: She holds her way, and I look with joy For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung. "Let go, and haul!" 'Tis the last command, And the head-sails fill to the blast once more: Astern and to leeward lies the land, With its breakers white on the shingly shore. What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall? The first mate clamors, 66 Belay, there, all!" And the captain's breath once more comes free. And so off shore let the good ship fly; Little care I how the gusts may blow, In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry. Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below. 1852. MASSA'S IN DE COLD GROUND. Ro OUND de meadows am a-ringing O'er de grassy mound, Dere old massa am a-sleeping, Sleeping in de cold, cold ground. Down in de corn-field Hear dat mournful sound; Massa's in de cold, cold ground. When de autumn leaves were falling, 'Twas hard to hear old massa calling, Now de summer days am coming,— Massa make de darkeys love him, Cayse he was so kind; Now, dey sadly weep above him, Mourning cayse he leave dem behind. I cannot work before to-morrow, Cayse de tear-drop flow; I try to drive away my sorrow, Down in de corn-field Hear dat mournful sound: NELLY BLY. NELLY BLY! Nelly Bly! bring de broom along, We'll sweep de kitchen clean, my dear, and hab a little song. Poke de wood, my lady lub, and make de fire burn, And while I take de banjo down, just gib de mush a turn. Heigh! Nelly, Ho! Nelly, Listen, lub, to me; I'll sing for you, I'll play for you, A dulcem melody. VOL. VIII.-19 |