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I bear round berries, gray and red,

Rootless and rover though I be; My spangled leaves, when nicely spread, Arboresce as a trunkless tree; Corals curious coat me o'er,

White and hard in apt array; Mid the wild waves' rude uproar

Gracefully grow I, night and day.

Hearts there are on the sounding shore,

Something whispers soft to me, Restless and roaming forevermore,

Like this weary weed of the sea; Bear they yet on each beating breast The eternal type of the wondrous whole, Growth unfolding amidst unrest,

Grace informing with silent soul. -Cornelius George Fenner.

vain the cords and axes were prepared,

The Shipwreck.

I vain the cords and as se as insult the yard;

High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade,
And o'er her burst in terrible cascade.
Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies,
Her shattered top half buried in the skies,
Then headlong plunging thunders on the ground;
Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps resound!
Her giant bulk the dread concussionf eels,
And quivering with the wound in torment reels.
So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes,
The bleeding bull beneath the murderer's blows.
Again she plunges! hark! a second shock
Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock:
Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries,
The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes
In wild despair; while yet another stroke,
With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak;
Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell
The lurking demons of destruction dwell,
At length asunder torn, her frame divides,
And, crashing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides,
O, were it mine with tuneful Maro's art
To wake to sympathy the feeling heart;

Like him the smooth and mournful verse to dress

In all the pomp of exquisite distress,
Then too severely taught by cruel fate,
To share in all the perils I relate,
Then might I with unrivaled strains deplore
The impervious horrors of a leeward shore!

As o'er the surge the stooping mainmast hung,
Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung;
Some, struggling, on a broken crag were cast,
And there by oozy tangles grappled fast.
Awhile they bore the o'erwhelming billows rage,
Unequal combat with their fate to wage;
Till, all benumbed and feeble, they forego
Their slippery hold, and sink to shades below.
Some, from the main yard arm impetuous thrown
On marble ridges, die without a groan.
Three with Palemon on their skill depend,
And from the wreck on oars and rafts descend.
Now on the mountain wave on high they ride,
Then downward plunge beneath the involving tide,
Till one, who seems in agony to strive,
The whirling breakers heave on shore alive;
The rest a speedier end of anguish knew,
And pressed the stony beach, a lifeless crew!
-William Falconer.

The Wreck of the Atlantic.

[The good steamship "Atlantic" was wrecked on the coast of Newfoundland, and several hundred lives were lost.]

AY, build her long and narrow and deep!

She shall cut the sea with a scimetar's sweep, Whatever betides and whoever may weep! Bring out the red wine! Lift the glass to the lip! With a roar of great guns, and a “Hip! hip! Hurrah!" for the craft, we will christen the ship!

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Dash a draught on the bow! Ah, the spar of white
Drips into the sea till it colors the flood
With the very own double ahd symbol of blood!
Now out with the name of the monarch gigantic
That shall queen it so grandly when surges are frantic!
Child of fire and of iron, God save the "Atlantic!"

All aboard. my fine fellows! "Up anchor!" the word— Ah, never again shall that order be heard,

For two worlds will be mourning you gone to a third!

To the trumpet of March wild gallops the sea;
The white-crested troopers are under the lee-

Old World and New World and Soul-World are three.

Great garments of rain wrap the desolate night;
Sweet heaven disastered is lost to the sight;
"Atlantic," crash on in the pride of thy might! [right!"
With thy look-out's dim cry, “One o'clock, and all

Ho, down with the hatches! The seas come aboard!
All together they come, like a passionate word,
Like pirates that put every soul to the sword!

Their black flag all aboard makes murky the air,
But the ship parts the night as a maiden her hair—
Through and through the thick gloom, from land here
to land there,

Like a shuttle that weaves for a mourner to wear!

Good-night, proud "Atlantic!" One tick of the clock, And a staggering craunch and a shivering shock'Tis the flint and the steel! 'Tis the ship and the rock!

Deathless sparks are struck out from the bosoms of

girls,

From the stout heart of manhood, in scintillant whirls,
Like the stars of the flag when the banner unfurls!

What hundreds went up unto God in their sleep!
What hundreds in agony baffled the deep-
Nobody to pray and nobody to weep!

Alas for the flag of the single "White Star,"
With light pale and cold as the woman's hands are
Who, froze in the shrouds, flashed her jewels afar,
Lost her hold on the world, and then clutched at a spar!

God of mercy and grace! How the bubbles come up
With souls from the revel, who stayed not to sup;
Death drank the last toast, and then shattered the cup!
-Benjamin F. Taylor.

A Shipwreck.

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There was no light in heaven but a few stars;
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews,
She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port,
And, going down head foremost-sunk, in short.
Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell!

Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave; Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave;

And the sea yawned around her like a hell,

And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy, And strives to strangle him before he died.

-Campbell.

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I That said the wintry sea;

was the schooner, "Hesperus"

And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy 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-

And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now west, now south.

Then up and spake an old sailor
Who 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 in the hissing 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 frighted steed, Then leap'd 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.

"O father, I hear the church bells ring! O say, what may it be?"

"'Tis a fog bell on a rock bound coast," And he steer'd for the open sea.

"O father, I hear the sound of guns! O say, what may it be?"

"Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!"

"O father, I see a gleaming light!

O say, what may it be !"

But the father answer'd never a wordA frozen corpse was he!

Lash'd to the helm all stiff and stark,
With his face to the skies,

The lantern gleam'd thro' the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasp'd her hands and prayed, That saved she might be;

And she thought of Christ, who still'd 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,
Toward 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
Look'd soft as carded wool;

But the cruel rocks they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheath'd in ice,
With the masts, went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank-
"Ho! ho!' the breakers roar'd.

At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,

To see the form of a maiden fair
Lash'd 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 Hesperus,

In the midnight, and the snow; Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe. -Henry Wadsworth Longfello

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And God Almighty's guns were going off,
And the land trembled.

"When she took the ground,

She went to pieces like a lock of hay
Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it came to that,
The captain reeled on deck with two small things,
One in each arm,-his little lad and lass.
Their hair was long and blew before his face,
Or else we thought he had been saved; he fell,
But held them fast. The crew, poor luckless souls!
The breakers licked them off; and some were crushed,
Some swallowed in the yeast, some flung up dead,
The dear breath beaten out of them: not one
Jumped from the wreck upon the reef to catch
The hands that strained to reach, but tumbled back
With eyes wide open. But the captain lay
And clung-the only man alive. They prayed-
'For God's sake, captain, throw the children here!'
'Throw them!' our parson cried; and then she struck:
And he threw one, a pretty two years' child,

But the gale dashed him on the slippery verge,
And down he went. They say they heard him cry
"Then he rose up and took the other one,
And our men reached out their hungry arms,
And cried out, Throw her, throw her!' and he did-
He threw her right against the parson's breast,
And all at once a sea broke over them,
And they that saw it from the shore have said
It struck the wreck, and piecemeal scattered it,
Just as a woman might a lump of salt
That 'twixt her hand into the kneading-pan
She breaks and crumbles on her rising bread.

"We hauled our men in: two of them were dead-
The sea had beaten them, their heads hung down;
Our parson's arms where empty, for the wave
Had torn away the pretty, pretty lamb;
We often see him stand beside her grave:
But 'twas no fault of his, no fault of his."

-Jean Ingelow.

HE

The Dying Sailor.

E called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh
A lover's message:-" Thomas, I must die,
Would I could see my Sallie, and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
And gazing, go!—if not, this trifle take,
And say, till death I wore it for her sake;
Yes! I must die-blow on, sweet breeze, blow on!
Give me one look, before my life be gone,
Oh! give me that, and let me not despair,
One last fond look-and now repeat the prayer."

He had his wish, had more; I will not paint
The lover's meeting; she beheld him faint,
With tender fears, she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
He tried to smile, and. half succeeding, said,
"Yes! I must die;" and hope forever fled.

Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts meantime:
Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.
To her he came to die, and every day
She took some portion of the dread away:
With him she prayed, to him his Bible read,
Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head;
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;

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Apart, she sighed, alone, she shed the tear; Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.

One day he lighter seemed. and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot; They spoke with cheerfulness, and seemed to think, Yet said not so-" Perhaps he will not sink:" A sudden brightness in his look appeared, A sudden vigor in his voice was heard;-She had been reading in the book of prayer, And led him forth, and placed him in his chair; Lively he seemed, and spoke of all he knew, The frendly many, and the favorite few; Nor one that day did he to mind recall, But she has treasured, and she loves them all; When in her way she meets them, they appear Peculiar people-death has made them dear. He named his friend, but then his hand she prest, And fondly whispered "Thou must go to rest;" "I go," he said; but, as he spoke, she found His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound! Then gazed affrightened; but, she caught a last, A dying look of love, and all was past'

-George Crabbe.

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