At the soft hour of even-fall We made his quiet bed, Now when our solemn rite had ceased, The mariner rose, and said: "And 'tis a blessed lot, to lie Beneath familiar ground, Clings to the burial-mound. "Such rest, since death is common doom, With grief may scarce agree; But would ye know how full of gloom, And cheerless death may be, Ye should stand by when the mariner's tomb Is made in the deep, deep sea! "When, for his passing-bell, the gale O'er the brief funeral raves; For mourner's song, the sea-bird's wail— For tomb, the dark sea-caves;— Ay! I could tell a solemn tale Of sailors' wintry graves!" Thy words have strongly won mine earSay on, thou aged man! "Ay, me! how many a brave career (The mariner grey began) "Hath closed on such a weltering bier !" And thus his story ran; TALE OF THE ENGLISH MARINER. "Ye deem our course all storm and sport, Hot strife, and revel light; And well our rugged life may court The throb of wild delight; And glad should seem their lion-port, Who wield proud England's might! "God wot, great joy it is, to range The blue waves to and fro, A joy the mariner would not change "And sad, in ocean dark and vast, ""Tis fifty summers past and more;— "As fair and nobly did she ride, "She was long and low, and sharp below, With a gently curved side, And white decks, flush and wide,- "Her yards were square, her spars were slim, Well set by stay and shroud; That made your soul grow proud! "And close and black, in grim array, But the sea hath seasons sad and strange, The surge behind her rushing feet That landsmen little know. ""Tis fearful, when the angry gale Strips the curled ocean bare, And the boiling spray and bitter hail Are mingling sea and air; And for all our light, the cloudy veil Streams with the levin's glare. ""Tis awful, in the midnight lone, When clouds are pacing slow, To hear the sea-sprite laugh or moan From the dull wave below, In some loved mate's remembered tone, Though buried long ago. VOL. II. Shone like a comet's trail. "Her rest was as a giant's sleep; Her chase, the stoop of war; St. George! how proud the old man grew! "Till with calm voice he gan renew His tale, at my demand : E FYTTE II. "There was a boy, a fair young lad, "All loved the child; for hope and joy Like sun-light round him shone; We trembled for the noble boy, And watched him night and noon, Lest the quick spirit should destroy His slender lamp too soon. "And when he fain our watch would share, And every storm abide, We sought his tender years to spare, And might not be denied. "Full little thanks the urchin bold To learn his gallant trade.' The pride of every eye,— But smiled as he went by; "But when the winter nights came on, With sea, and snow, and gale; His little strength ran out anon, And his fresh cheek grew pale ;The time was all too stern for one So flower-like and so frail. "Though nought would urge him to complain, We marked him wan and weak; For the brave lad strove to hide his pain, And bore, but did not speak ;— And when we took him down, would fain Have lingered on the deck. "Alas! his eager spirit pined, While idly sick he lay : For all our cares, and tendance kind, At length he passed away! "He passed away, as the cold sun rose, From the cold sea beneath; Just as the night-watch sought repose, The child had ceased to breathe!They hardly marked his eyelids close, So peaceful was his death! "Nor did he turn like other dead, All ashen-white and cold,His lips still wore a faint, pure red, Like rose-buds' inner fold; And there a sweet smile lingered, Even as it wont of old. "The ancient mates did then declare, (I ween they deemed aright,) "Then up and spake our captain brave, 'Ye shall not cast him on the wave Before the evening bell.' "So we kept the child throughout the day, A dull and sorrowing crew; The air was chill, the sky was grey, And the sea of sullen hue: "Ere the red sun sank down, the north We stretched it on the simple bier, "The night had fallen swift and black, "An awful time it seemed, and fit Looked spectral in the glow. "Then some that watched to windward said, Right in the tempest's eye, The Phantom-Ship, with sails all spread, Swept in the darkness by; Till, what with grief and ghostly dread, Our hearts were like to die. "And cheerless was our weltering plight With pain and sea-spray wet, And cold at heart with strange affright, And cold with dumb regret Lord Christ! to think on that chill night, And sooth, as leaves with winter's blast FYTTE III. "Now when his stand the chaplain took,— Scarce could we hear, as from the book I am,' the Lord hath said; And he shall live who trusts in me, "And ever as the rite was read More shrilly rang the gale; Might o'er the din prevail. "I know that my Redeemer, Christ, In heaven liveth aye ; And he shall stand upon the earth In the great Judgment-Day: "And when he breathed that holy word High washed the corpse's feet. Each man to man around, That the great sea-snake lay in our wake, That laughs when fleets are drowned: The next brief lull, this sentence brake Through the vexed waters' sound: "When thy strong breath doth scatter them, Even as a sleep they pass: At morning, green it flourisheth : "At once the gale uprose again : Were breathing space for louder strain; "Unheard, thenceforth, the chaplain read; But we saw his face by the lamp o'er head, He made a sign to cast the dead Forth to its stormy tomb. "Now, when the corpse to sea we gave, It swept the unburied from the wave, "And the mariners gave a shuddering cry, To see the corpse pass whirling by, "Short leisure, 'midst the storm's descent, As straight, through sails and rigging rent, "Beneath the varying shocks o'er-strained, "We could not hear the Captain's shout, And from its flash the light flew out "We could not aid the good ship's toil; And gave our lives for lost! "But ere we drave ten fathoms wide, After the corpse flew past, The gale went down, and lulled, and died; That ere mid-watch, we seemed to glide "And where the Eastern billows slept And a faint murmur round us crept, "Then did our praise to Him who That blessed calm, ascend; But awe bechilled us, as we though t Each questioned much, and answered nought, For none could counsel lend: "Till up and spake the oldest mate, "Howe'er it be, though well I deem, The child is with the blest, That burial, like an ugly dream, For ever haunts my rest, Though when I pray, there falls a beam "But none who mourn in churchyards Where the dead sleep pleasantly, SOME LATE PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF JOHN BULL, ESQ. (Continued from Page 599, VOL. I.) CHAPTER VII. Shewing how Bill Boswain lost his Breeches, and what came thereof; the Stramash in John's Family, and the Rumpus at the Mitre. BILL BOSWAIN did not well remember how he tumbled into bed on the night of the hop, after the dismissal of Gaffer; but all night long he dreams of the 'Squire transformed into a bear in a rage; and of Gaffer and his Broom talking; and of the message he behoved to send in the morning. And then, that his wenches were frying the old dish, and Hookey standing by, staring at him like a mad doctor, using a horn to make him swallow it. The message to Gaffer, to say truth, was ready cut-and-dry, long before; though Bill, poor soul, might not know as much. Late in the morning he rubs up his eyes, with something of a headache, and perhaps, something of a heartache too, if he had owned it; but he put the best face on the matter. "Where's my wife?" quoth he. "In the back parlour with Hookey, darning a stocking;" for it was always making a pudding or darning a stocking she was. This good housewife was never meddling with John's matters-not she! "Then bring me my breeches," quoth Bill.-But up or down, high or low, no such article was to be found. "Where's my breeches," shouted Bill, manfully; for his wife was now gone out to chapel. "What a spot of work is here," quoth that pert gipsy, Jenny Driver; "I daresay that rogue, H. B. has stolen them to make a picture of them, and they may be in Rag Fair by this time." "I'll have my breeches," cried Bill; "If the 'Squire hear of this-" "Sure you have no more need of such an article than a Highlander for kneebuckles," said the forward, saucy wench, whose shrewish, merry humour made her a great favourite with Bill; "A'n't you a brisk Jack tar, and shouldn't sport shorts. There's Hookey on the stairs: throw any thing on you for decency; and get up, and put that prig Gaffer out of his pain. Here's an old petticoat of my mistress's, and here's a wrap-rascal of -'s." It was impossible to make out the name; whether the last flourish was the up-swirled tail of an n or r, or the sweep of an e or d, no man could tell; and of which garment Bill availed himself, or if he donned both, history is mute; but up he got, in time to hear that his mes sage to Greysteel had caused a commotion in John's family, to which all that had ever happened before was mere moonshine in water; and the beauty of it was, that Prince Rusty, and the Old Gentlewoman were now almost as anxious as John that Madam should be brought in, if that would only make peace in the house, so mortally afraid were they of Sister Peg, and Brummagem Tom. Every Steel was on the alert, "All hands aloft" was the cry, and "Down with Hookey ;" and even Prince Rustyfusty himself seemed less hateful to them at this time than the old Drill. And ever and anon they would shout, "Bill Boswain has sold Madam !-sold her! and betrayed John Bull !" and every five minutes a fresh scout of the Rusty faction would bounce into Bill's parlour, which no Steel would now look near, and where neither Tims nor Chronie would be admitted, when they begged to tell Bill the rights of the story. "Mrs. Bull, the vixen," cried one," is still insisting on keeping the keys." "Well, Moses will lend us a couple of pieces for a few days, to carry on the war," cried Hookey, nothing daunted yet; "I have thrown as much in his way before now.' But Moses "pegged the prave and callant Hookey would exquies de poor Cherman Chew, who was a stranger, and did not wish to meddle or make in 'Squire Pull's familish." Hookey, it is said, lent him a kick, made him bounce out at the window, where, in falling, he knocked down Old Bags, Mad Charley, and the Pettifogger, like as many nine pins set up for practice. But as a faithful and veracious historian, I must premise, that this part of my narrative is not authenticated, and that it is as like Hookey would have been sly enough to apply privately for funds to That Most Mighty and Potent, &c., &c., before trying a Jew money-lender. But to return. "What next, goose-face?" cries the Old Corporal, as Silly Billy came in, blowing and puffing, Hookey's hands now as full of work as if there had been a grand cock-match next day; besides having all the wenches hanging on him. "Peg," cried Silly Billy," is coming striding up the North Wynd,* her petticoats kilted to the knee, laying about her with a rung,† her eyne like a wild-cat's, and Donald hard behind her, ettling at the Skien Dhu." "Peg has been at her whisky bottle this morning," quoth the Raw Duckling; but had you seen the pair of black lucken brows Peg bent, when this was told her, ye might guess the reason Duckie was fain to sing dumb, and eat in these same. words of wisdom. "Pat is whooping over the bog like a mad bull, flourishing his shille. lah, and swearing by the Poker to be the death of the Old Gentlewoman, and to break every bone in Hookey's body," said Derrydown Georgy, or Paddy Roddy, or some one or other of those spalpeens that had provoked Pat to this. "What next, Gents.?" cried Hookey sulkily; and between hands he and the wenches were sending off gossoons and caddies to every quarter -to Sly Bob, to Chanticleer, to the Chuff, &c. &c. "What next, your honour? If this is not enough, there's Brummagem Tem, beating up, on his iron griddle, and all the hive gathering at his tail, brandishing Sheffield whittles, and swearing to make mince-meat of you." "The Devil they do," quoth Hookey, pretending still to be nothing daunted. 66 Peg and Tom are swearing a Solemn League and Covenant against you." Peg's heart jumped to her mouth when she heard of this Covenant. * See Horne Tooke. The D of B———. + See Jamieson. |