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O, broad-armed Fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine ?
The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that tugs thy cable line :
And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,
Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play;
But, shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name I gave,
A fisher's joy is to destroy-thine office is to save.

0, lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band, Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend, With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient friendOh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round

thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride, thou dst leap within the sea !

Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand,
To shed their blood so freely for the love of fatherland-
Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard grave
So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave-
Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung,
Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among!

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

It was the schooner Hesperus,

That sailed the wintry sea ;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,

To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes, as the lairy-flax,

Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,

That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm,

His pipe was in his mouth,

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.

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And watched how the veering flaw did blow

The smoke now west, now south.

Then up and spake an old sailor,

Had sailed the Spanish Main, "I pray thee, put into yonder port,

For I fear a hurricane..

“Last night the moon had a golden ring,

And to-night no moon we see !
The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe,

And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind,

A gale from the northeast;
The snow fell hissing in the brine,

And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain

The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frightened steed,

Then leaped her cable's length.

" Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,

And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale

That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat,

Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,

And bound her to the mast.

“0, father! I hear the church-bells ring,

Oh, say, what may it be?"! “ 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast !"

And he steered for the open sea.

“0, father! I hear the sound of guns,

Ob, say, what may it be ?"

“Some ship in distress, that cannot live

In such an angry sea !”

“O, father! I see a gleaming light,

Oh, say, what may it be?”
But the father answered never a word !

A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,

With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the glancing snow

On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands, and prayed

That saved she might be ; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waves

On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,

Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept

Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between

A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,

She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew,

Like icicles, from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves

Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side,

Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,

With the masts, went by the board ;

THE MAN OF ROSS.

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Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,

Ho! ho! the breakers roared.

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,

A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair

Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,

The salt tears in her eyes ;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,

On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,

In the midnight and the snow !
Christ, save us all from a death like this,

On the reef of Norman's Woe!

THE MAN OF ROSS.

ALEXANDER POPE.

-All our praises why should lords engross ?
Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross :
Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow ?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow ?
Not to the skies in useless columns tost,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost;
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows ?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose ?
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise ?
“ The Man of Ross,”' each lisping babe replies.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread !
The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread:
He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate :

Him portioned maids, apprenticed orphans blessed,
The young who labor, and the old who rest.
Is any sick ? the Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes and gives.
Is there a variance ? enter but his door,
Baulked are the courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile attorneys, now a useless race.

Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the power to do!
0, say! what sums that generous hand supply?
What mines to swell that boundless charity ?

Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear,
This man possessed five hundred pounds a year.
Blush, Grandeur, blush! proud Courts, withdraw your blaze!
Ye little stars, hide your diminished rays !

And what! no monument, inscription, stone ?
His race, his form, bis name almost unknown ?

Who builds a church to God, and not to fame,
Will never mark the marble with his name :
Go, search it there, where to be born and die,
Of rich and poor makes all the history;
Enough, that virtue filled the space between ;
Proved by the ends of being to have been.

NO WORK THE HARDEST WORK.

O.P.ORNE.

Ho! ye who at the anvil toil,

And strike the sounding blow,
Where from the burning iron's breast

The sparks fly to and fro,
While answering to the hammer's ring,

And fire's intenser glow-
Oh! while ye feel 'tis hard to toil

And sweat the long day through,
Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

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