THE PAIN OF UNCERTAINTY.

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
Maimed, mangled, by inhuman men;
Or thou upon a desert thrown
Inheritest the lion's den;

Or hast been summoned to the deep,
Thou, thou and all thy mates to keep
An incommunicable sleep.

My apprehensions come in crowds;
I dread the rustling of the grass;
The very shadows of the clouds
Have power to shake me as they pass;
I question things, and do not find
One that will answer to my mind;
And all the world appears unkind.

Beyond participation lie

My troubles, and beyond relief:

If

any chance to heave a sigh,
They pity me, and not my grief.
Then come to me, my son, or send
Some tidings that my woes may end;
I have no other earthly friend.

261

WORDSWORTH.

THE SAILOR'S LOVE OF HIS MOTHER.

I LOVE contemplating, apart

From all his homicidal glory,

The traits that soften to our hearts
Napoleon's story.

"Twas when his banners at Boulogne
Armed in our island every freeman,
navy chanced to capture one
Poor British seaman.

His

They suffered him, I know not how,
Unprisoned on the shore to roam,
And aye was bent his youthful brow
On England's home.

His eye, methought, perceived the flight Of birds, to Britain half-way over, With envy-they could reach the white Dear cliffs of Dover.

At length, when care had banished sleep,

He saw one morning, dreaming, doating, An empty hogshead on the deep

Come shoreward floating

THE SAILOR'S LOVE OF HIS MOTHER.

He hid it in a cave, and wrought
The live-long day, laborious lurking,
Until he launched a tiny boat,
By mighty working.

Alas! it was a thing beyond

Description; such a wretched wherry Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond,

Or crossed a ferry.

263

For ploughing on the salt sea-field
'Twould make the very boldest shudder-
Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled,
No sail, no rudder.

From neighbouring woods, he interlaced
His sorry skiff with wattled willows;
And thus equipped, he would have faced
The raging billows.

The French guard caught him on the beach,
His little argos sorely jeering,

Till tidings of it came to reach
Napoleon's hearing.

With folded arms Napoleon stood,

Serene alike in peace and danger, And, in his wonted attitude,

Addressed the stranger.

"Rash youth, that would'st yon channel pass
With twigs and staves so rudely fashioned,
Thy heart to some sweet English lass
Must be impassioned."

"I have no sweetheart," said the lad:
"But, absent years from one another,
Great was the longing that I had
mother."

To see my

"And so thou shalt," Napoleon said:
"You've both my favour fairly won:
A noble mother must have bred
So brave a son."

He

gave the tar a piece of gold,

And, with a flag of truce, commanded He should be shipped to England old, And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantly shift
To find a dinner plain and hearty,
But never changed the coin and gift
Of Bonaparte!

CAMPBELL.

"'TIS A WILD NIGHT AT SEA."

265

""TIS A WILD NIGHT AT SEA."

A MAIDEN looked from a lattice pane
Toward where the ocean lay;

And her gaze was fixed with earnest strain
On the beacon, leagues away.

She knew that he who had won her soul
Was getting close to land;

And she clutched at every thunder roll
With a hard, convulsive hand.

He had promised he would sail no more
To far and fearful climes;

He had talked of a cottage on the shore,
And the sound of wedding chimes.

They had loved each other many a year,
They had grown up side by side;

She had reckoned the days his ship must be near-
He was coming to claim his bride.

An old crone passed the lattice pane,

"GOD help us all!" quoth she;

""Tis bad on the mountain, but worse on the main— 'Tis a wild night at sea!"