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orders promulgated, we are bound to suppose, for the good of the service, no strangers are allowed to come on board. Boats may lay off,' and 'Jack' may look from the ports of the lower deck at his 'Polly dear; but he cannot speak his good-b'ye. Yet, strange to say, for the tantalizing satisfaction of catching one more glance at some familiar face, perhaps never to be seen again, many are the parties that row round the ship. Nor are these composed of the unfortunates who preyed on the reckless sailor while the ship was. at her moorings. They have extracted the last penny from their dupes. Besides, they know the regulations of a man-of-war too well for them now to expect admittance. They have done with the barkey' until she return home to be paid off. Jack will then be worth robbing again. No, these are little, anxious groups, who have paid dearly for the honest gratification of seeing-the wife her husband, the father and mother their son, the sister her brother: yet they cannot be admitted on board. The time is past they should have come before the ship was under sailing orders, waiting for a wind.

'But,' expostulated an old woman from a shore-boat, who was yesterday talking to the corporal of marines at the entrance port, my daughter didn't know that her husband had "entered" till last Thursday. He was away from her, looking for work, and we have walked every bit of the road from Dover to see him.' And the daughter here spoken of, a delicate looking girl, the wife of one of our carpenter's crew, fixed her tearful eyes on the stern marine as she awaited his an

swer.

There was yet another of the family in the boat, a bluff old man-ofwar's man, who tugged at his wife's cloak, bidding her keep still. "The jolly is only 'baying orders,' he very properly remarked; but if so be as we could get speech at the first-luftenant, or any of the officers, we might get liberty to come a-board. I've sarved in a man-a-war myself. I know what the sarvice is; so, if you please, shipmate, just to pass the word for Tom Rose, carpenter's crew.'

The corporal did pass the word, and Tom Rose, a fine young fellow of five-and-twenty, was permitted to go down the ship's side to bid good-b'ye to his wife. Come on board she might not, and short was the parting between them. But the carpenter had 'entered' with a free will, rather than burthen his wife's parents to support him. He kept up a good heart: the sleeve of his jacket might have wiped away a tear as he sprang up the ladder to resume his work on the forecastle, and once, only once, he took a look from the head' at the boat, now a little speck entering the harbour; but the vision of a carpenter's warrant was before him; and, come what might, if he did not like the service, when the ship was paid off he could leave it. This was sound reasoning: Tom Rose clinched it by letting his hammer fall on a nail-head with more than usual force, and ere the nail was driven home the young carpenter was himself again.

6

A fair wind! a fair wind!' How many repeat the good news, putting an end to a tedious stay at Spithead, riding out gale after gale, and wearing out calm after calm. The Admiral weighs anchor and makes sail; with alacrity we follow his example, and before to-morrow we shall have bidden the white cliffs of Albion' adieu.

'Tis our last night in England, then round with the wine,
And our pledge be at parting the land of our birth,
Nor let us, her sons, at this parting repine,

For we go to protect all we value on earth.

May the seas that we dare as we ride on the gale,
Only murmur of peace, as our island they lave,
And the homes we have left not a danger assail,

While our wooden-walls gallantly float on the wave.

'Tis our last night in England, then pledge to the land,

That has ruled and shall rule worlds in arms at her nod,
While the foot of the freeman stands firm on her strand,
Where for ages no conquering invader has trod.
Far away, far away her defenders may be,

Yet they strike for her right, and though distant their wars,
Her sons, as their thunder resounds o'er the sea,

Well know that their conquests give peace to her shores.

'Tis our last night in England, our ship's under weigh,
A favouring breeze swells every sail on the mast,
And the green smiling shores we have gazed on to-day,
To-morrow will be as a dream of the past.
But round with the wine-cup, while glistens the tear

In memory of sorrows that yet wring the heart;
Be the toast, May our meeting with those we hold dear,
Ere long prove as sweet as 'twas bitter to part.'

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RICH. JOHNS.

EPES SARGENT.

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