THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. FROM BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. COME, see the Dolphin's Anchor forged; 'tis at a white heat now; The billows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound; And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare; Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe; It rises, roars, rends all outright-O Vulcan, what a glow! 'Tis blinding white, 'tis 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 strow 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! And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road; board; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains, But courage still, brave mariners, the bower still 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, Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime ! But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burden be, The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal craftsmen we ; Strike in, strike in, the sparks begin to dull their rustling red! Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped; Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the Yeo-heave-o, and the Heave-away, and the sighing seaman's cheer; Then weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and home, And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last, O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou? The hoary monsters' palaces! methinks what joy 'twere now To go plump plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails! Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn, And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn; To leave the subtle sworder-fish, of bony blade forlorn, scorn; To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles He lies, a lubber anchorage, for sudden shallowed miles; Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls, Meanwhile to swing, a buffeting the far-astonished shoals Of his back-browsing ocean calves; or haply in a cove, Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undinè's love, To find the long-haired mermaidens; or, hard by icy lands, To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. 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. O, 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 friend Oh, 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 honour 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 churchyard grave So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave— Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honour him for their memory, whose bones he goes among! THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. BY SOUTHEY. It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And by him sported on the green She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, In playing there had found; That was so large, and smooth, and round. And then the old man shook his head, ""Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "I find them in the garden, for The ploughshare turns them out! "Now tell us all about the war, But everybody said," quoth he, "My father lived at Blenheim theu, They burnt his dwelling to the ground, So with his wife and child he fled, H |