A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET.

October, 1746.

MR. THOMAS PRINCE loquitur.

A FLEET with flags arrayed
Sailed from the port of Brest,
And the Admiral's ship displayed
The signal: "Steer southwest."
For this Admiral D'Anville

Had sworn by cross and crown
To ravage with fire and steel
Our helpless Boston Town.

There were rumours in the street,
In the houses there was fear

Of the coming of the fleet,

And the danger hovering near.
And while from mouth to mouth
Spread the tidings of dismay,

I stood in the Old South,

Saying humbly: "Let us pray!

"O Lord! we would not advise ;

But if in Thy providence

A tempest should arise

To drive the French Fleet hence

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And scatter it far and wide,

Or sink it in the sea, We should be satisfied,

And Thine the glory be."

This was the prayer I made,
For my soul was all on flame,
And even as I prayed

The answering tempest came ; It came with a mighty power, Shaking the windows and walls, And tolling the bell in the tower As it tolls at funerals.

The lightning suddenly

Unsheathed its flaming sword, And I cried: "Stand still, and see The salvation of the Lord!"

The heavens were black with cloud,
The sea was white with hail,
And ever more fierce and loud
Blew the October gale.

The fleet it overtook,

And the broad sails in the van Like the tents of Cushan shook,

Or the curtains of Midian.

Down on the reeling decks

Crashed the o'erwhelming seas;
Ah, never were there wrecks

So pitiful as these!

Like a potter's vessel broke
The great ships of the line;
They were carried away as a smoke,
Or sank like lead in the brine.

O Lord! before Thy path

They vanished and ceased to be,

When Thou didst walk in wrath

With Thine horses through the sea!

THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD.

WARM and still is the summer night,

As here by the river's brink I wander;

White overhead are the stars, and white

The glimmering lamps on the hillside yonder.

Silent are all the sounds of day;

Nothing I hear but the chirp of crickets, And the cry of the herons winging their way

O'er the poet's house in the Elmwood thickets.

Call to him, herons, as slowly you pass

To your roosts in the haunts of the exiled thrushes, Sing him the song of the green morass,

And the tides that water the reeds and rushes.

Sing him the mystical song of the hern,

And the secret that baffles our utmost seeking;

For only a sound of lament we discern,

And cannot interpret the words you are speaking.

Sing of the air, and the wild delight

Of wings that uplift and winds that uphold you, The joy of freedom, the rapture of flight

Through the drift of the floating mists that enfold you ;

Of the landscape lying so far below,

With its towns and rivers and desert places;

And the splendour of light above, and the glow
Of the limitless, blue, ethereal spaces.

Ask him if songs of the Troubadors,

Or of Minnesingers in old black-letter, Sound in his ears more sweet than yours,

And if yours are not sweeter and wilder and better.

Sing to him, say to him, here at his gate,

Where the boughs of the stately elms are meeting, Some one hath lingered to meditate,

And send him unseen this friendly greeting:

That many another hath done the same,

Though not by a sound was the silence broken; The surest pledge of a deathless name

Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken.

A DUTCH PICTURE.

SIMON DANZ has come home again,

From cruising about with his buccaneers; He has singed the beard of the King of Spain, And carried away the Dean of Jaen

And sold him in Algiers.

In his house by the Maese, with its roof of tiles,
And weathercocks flying aloft in air,
There are silver tankards of antique styles,

Plunder of convent and castle, and piles

Of carpets rich and rare.

In his tulip-garden there by the town,
Overlooking the sluggish stream,
With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown,
The old sea-captain, hale and brown,

Walks in a waking dream.