sat calmly reading a large volume she supported against the railing of a noble vessel that was steering its course from the shores of "Merrie England," to some land far over sea. Two gentlemen, who were lounging on the quarter-deck arm in arm, frequently passed her. The elder one, in a peculiarly kind tone of voice, said, "You bear the voyage well, dame.” "Thank God, yes, sir!" “Ah! you will wish yourself back in old England before you are landed six weeks." "I did not wish to leave it, sir; but my duty obliged me to do so." The gentlemen walked on. "Who is she?" inquired the younger. "A very singular woman. Her information transported for life a husband whom she loved notwithstanding his coldness and his crimes. She had, at that time, three children, and the eldest had already become contaminated by his father's example. She saw nothing but destruction for them in prospective, her warnings and entreaties being alike unregarded; so she made her election-sacrificed the husband, and saved the children!" "But what does she here ?" "Her eldest son is now established in a small business, and respected by all who know him; her second boy, and a father whom her misfortunes reduced to a deplorable state of wretchedness, are dead; her daughter, a village belle and beauty, is married to my father's handsome new parish-clerk; and Mrs. Huntley, having seen her children provided for, and by her virtues and industry made respectable in the Old World, is now on her voyage to the New, to see, if I may be permitted to use her own simple language, 'whether she can contribute to render the last days of her husband as happy as the first they passed together.' It is only justice to the criminal to say that I believe him truly and perfectly reformed." "And on this chance she leaves her children and her country?" "She does! She argues that, as the will of Providence prevented her from discharging her duties together, she must endeavour to perform them separately. He was sentenced to die; but, by my father's exertions, his sentence was commuted to one of transportation for life; and I know she has quitted England without the hope of again beholding its white cliffs." THE ENGLISH SEA-CAPTAIN'S SONG. BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Now the sea-raven mute On the billow is dying; And the full Moon is up, Whom no dark clouds encumber, While the numberless stars Lie around her in slumber. All beneath us is bright All above us is glowing And the night's in her prime, And shakes mast and pennon; How we love the black storm! How we tread on the billows! How our strong timbers quake, And our masts bend like willows! See, the moon hides her head, And the waves rise in mountains ; Clouds spout liquid fire, Heaven opes all her fountains: Yet our ship rides as safely As when, in dews nourished, An oak, mid the forests Of Chatsworth, she flourished! See! see how the flame-crested Billows she's cleaving !— See! see! in the van how Old England she's leaving! She was wood when she grew In the depth of the forest: Now a sea-queen she smiles When the tempest is sorest! How she smiles mid the tempest, And longs for the rattle Of gun and of musquet To burst into battle! At the thrust of her pike, At the glance of her pennon, At a move of her helm, At the flash of her cannon,— The eagle of Russia Plies landward her pinion, Nor dares on the ocean To found her dominion. The lilies of Bourbon Seem withered and dying, Like weeds in the sun, Where her banner is flying. Blake, Raleigh, Monk, Nelson, Reign kings in sea-story; And Britain breeds none Will diminish their glory! |