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I never was on the dull tame shore,
But I loved the great Sea more and more,
And backwards flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;
And a mother she was, and is to me;
For I was born on the open Sea!

The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;

And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcomed to life the Ocean-child!

I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a sailor's life,

With wealth to spend and a power to range,

But never have sought, nor sighed for change; And Death, whenever he come to me,

Shall come on the wild unbounded Sea!

Barry Cornwall.

XXIV.

TO THE DAISY.

ITH little here to do or see

Of things that in the great world be,
Daisy! again I talk to thee,

For thou art worthy,

Thou unassuming Common-place
Of Nature, with that homely face,
And yet with something of a grace,
Which Love makes for thee!

Oft on the dappled turf at ease
I sit, and play with similes,

Loose types of things through all degrees,
Thoughts of thy raising:

And many a fond and idle name
I give to thee, for praise or blame,
As is the humour of the game,
While I am gazing.

A nun demure of lowly port,
Or sprightly maiden of Love's court,
In thy simplicity the sport

Of all temptations;

A queen in crown of rubies drest;
A starveling in a scanty vest ;
Are all, as seems to suit thee best
Thy appellations.

A little Cyclops with one eye
Staring to threaten and defy,

That thought comes next-and instantly
The freak is over,

The shape will vanish-and behold
A silver shield with boss of gold,
That spreads itself, some faery bold
In fight to cover!

I see thee glittering from afar-
And then thou art a pretty star;
Not quite so fair as many are

In heaven above thee!

Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ;-

May peace come never to his nest,
Who shall reprove thee?

Bright Flower! for by that name at last,
When all my reveries are past,

I call thee, and to that cleave fast,
Sweet silent creature!

That breath'st with me in sun and air,
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
My heart with gladness, and a share
Of thy meek nature!

W. Wordsworth.

XXV.

THE DEATH-BED.

E watch'd her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life

Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,

So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers

To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,

Our fears our hopes belied-
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,

Her quiet eyelids closed,-she had

Another morn than ours.

T. Hood.

XXVI.

THE BREEZE FROM SHORE.

OY is upon the lonely seas,

When Indian forests pour

Forth to the billow and the breeze

Their odours from the shore;

Joy, when the soft air's fanning sigh
Bears on the breath of Araby.

O welcome are the winds that tell
A wanderer of the deep,

Where, far away, the jasmines dwell
And where the myrrh-trees weep!
Blest, on the sounding surge and foam,
Are tidings of the citron's home!

The sailor at the helm they meet,
And hope his bosom stirs,
Upspringing, 'mid the waves, to greet
The fair earth's messengers;
That woo him from the moaning main
Back to her glorious bowers again.

They woo him, whispering lovely tales Of many a flowering glade,

And fount's bright gleam, in island-vales Of golden-fruited shade.

Across his lone ship's wake they bring A vision and a glow of Spring.

And O, ye masters of the lay,

Come not even thus your songs,
That meet us on life's weary way
Amidst her toiling throngs?
Yes, o'er the spirit thus they bear
A current of celestial air.

Their power is from the brighter clime

That in our birth hath part;

Their tones are of the world, which time
Sears not within the heart:

They tell us of the living light
In its green places ever bright.

They call us with a voice divine

Back to our early love,—

Our vows of youth at many a shrine,
Whence far and fast we rove.

Welcome high thought and holy strain,

That make us Truth's and Heaven's again.
F. Hemans.

XXVII.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

ELL me not, in mournful numbers, 'Life is but an empty dream !' For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal; 'Dust thou art, to dust returnest,' Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

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