THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. 251 I have trusted all to the sounding gale. "And wilt thou, little bird, go with us? “I need not, and seek not company, 66 High over the sails, high over the mast, When thy merry companions are still, at last "Who neither may rest, nor listen may, I dart away, in the bright blue day, "Thus do I sing my weary song, Wherever the four winds blow; And this same song, my whole life long, WILHELM MULLER. SYMPATHY WITH SAILORS. Он, pray the God of might For those upon the deep; For cold will be their watch to-night, The sea-bird through the day That skimm'd the ocean's breast, Now with her young divides the prey Within her rocky nest. The fisher seeks the shore; Around his children run; Then, lull'd by ocean's distant roar, The ploughman from the plain And, sheltered from the wind and rain, Hails harvest in his dream. The city's busy hum The daylight's ceaseless voiceAt night's approach is hush'd-is dumb, Except the drunkard's noise. But evening's murky clouds The tempest-boding glare THE STORM. The louder howling in the shrouds, Night brings no sweet repose, The more the growing tempest blows, Then pray the God of might, For those upon the deep; For cold will be their watch to-night, And short, alas! their sleep. 253 J. LONGMUIR. THE STORM. O GOD! have mercy in this dreadful hour near The howling of the storm alone to hear, succour And the wild sea that to the tempest raves; And in the dread of death to think of her SOUTHEY. THE MOTHER WHO HAS A CHILD AT SEA. THERE'S an eye that looks on the swelling cloud, Folding the moon in a funeral shroud, That watches the stars dying one by one, Till the whole of the heaven's calm light hath gone. There's a cheek that is getting ashy white, With loftier sweep and hoarser roar— That cheek! that form! oh, whose can they be, But a mother's who hath a child at sea? The rushing whistle chills her blood, As the north wind hurries to scourge the flood; THE MOTHER WHO HAS A CHILD AT SEA. 255 And the icy shiver spreads to her heart, She conjures up this fearful scene Of yawning waves, when the ship between, She presses her brow she sinks and kneels, Than the mother's prayer for her child at sea. Oh! I love the waves when they spurn control, |