WHERE the remote Bermudas ride In the ocean's bosom unespied, From a small boat that rowed along The listening winds received this song: "What should we do but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze Where he the huge sea monsters wracks, That lift the deep upon their backs, Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms' and prelates' rage; He gave us this eternal spring Which here enamels everything, And sends the fowls to us in care On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows: He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet; But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars chosen by his hand From Lebanon he stores the land; And makes the hollow seas that roar Proclaim the ambergris on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The gospel's pearl upon our coast; And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound his name. O, let our voice his praise exalt Till it arrive at heaven's vault, Which then perhaps rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexique bay!"- Thus sung they in the English boat A holy and a cheerful note; And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time.
A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.
A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast, And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee.
O for a soft and gentle wind!
I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze And white waves heaving high, – And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free; The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we.
O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea, Our thoughts as boundless and our souls as free, Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, Survey our empire, and behold our home! These are our realms, no limits to their sway, - Our flag the scepter all who meet obey. Ours the wild life in tumult still to range From toil to rest, and joy in every change. O, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave! Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave; Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease! Whom slumber soothes not, pleasure cannot please.
O, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, The exulting sense, the pulse's maddening play, That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way? That for itself can woo the approaching fight, And turn what some deem danger to delight; That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, And where the feebler faint can only feel- Feel to the rising bosom's inmost core, Its hope awaken and its spirit soar?
No dread of death — if with us die our foes Save that it seems even duller than repose: Come when it will we snatch the life of life- When lost what recks it - by disease or strife? Let him who crawls enamored of decay Cling to his couch and sicken years away; Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head: Ours the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul, Ours with one pang-one bound
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, And they who loathed his life may gild his grave: Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, When Ocean shrouds and sepulchers our dead.
FROM "THE BRITISH FLEET."
DESERTED by the waning moon,
When skies proclaim night's cheerless noon, On tower, or fort, or tented ground The sentry walks his lonely round; And should a footstep haply stray
More light and swift than thou none thread the Where caution marks the guarded way,
With surer keel or steadier on its path, We brave each waste of ocean-mystery
And laugh to hear the howling tempest's wrath, For we are thine.
Trust to the mystic power that points thy way, Trust to the eye that pierces from afar; Trust the red meteors that around thee play, And, fearless, trust the Sea-Green Lady's star, Thou bark divine!
"Who goes there? Stranger, quickly tell!" "A friend !" "The word?" *"Good night”;
LOUD roared the dreadful thunder, The rain a deluge showers, The clouds were rent asunder
By lightning's vivid powers; The night both drear and dark, Our poor devoted bark, Till next day, there she lay, In the Bay of Biscay, O!
Now dashed upon the billow, Her opening timbers creak, Each fears a watery pillow, None stops the dreadful leak; To cling to slippery shrouds Each breathless seaman crowds, As she lay, till the day, In the Bay of Biscay, O!
At length the wished-for morrow Broke through the hazy sky, Absorbed in silent sorrow,
Each heaved a bitter sigh; The dismal wreck to view Struck horror to the crew, As she lay, on that day, In the Bay of Biscay, O!
CEASE, rude Boreas, blustering railer! List, ye landsmen all, to me; Messmates, hear a brother sailor Sing the dangers of the sea;
From bounding billows, first in motion, When the distant whirlwinds rise, To the tempest-troubled ocean,
Where the seas contend with skies.
Hark! the boatswain hoarsely bawling, By topsail sheets and halyards stand! Down top-gallants quick be hauling! Down your stay-sails, - hand, boys, hand!
Now it freshens, set the braces,
Quick the topsail sheets let go; Luff, boys, luff! don't make wry faces, Up your topsails nimbly clew.
Round us roars the tempest louder, Think what fear our minds inthralls!
Harder yet it blows, still harder,
Now again the boatswain calls.
Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave;
For the deck it was their field of fame, And ocean was their grave. Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean warriors! Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more And the storm has ceased to blow.
HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew;
No more he 'll hear the tempest howling, For death has broached him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft; Faithful, below, he did his duty; But now he's gone aloft.
Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare,
His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair: And then he 'd sing, so blithe and jolly, Ah, many 's the time and oft!
When a squall, upon a sudden, Came o'er the waters scudding; And the clouds began to gather, And the sea was lashed to lather, And the lowering thunder grumbled, And the lightning jumped and tumbled, And the ship, and all the ocean, Woke up in wild commotion. Then the wind set up a howling, And the poodle-dog a yowling, And the cocks began a crowing, And the old cow raised a lowing, As she heard the tempest blowing; And fowls and geese did cackle, And the cordage and the tackle Began to shriek and crackle; And the spray dashed o'er the funnels, And down the deck in runnels;
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