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The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains;

But courage still, brave mariners, the bower yet remains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky

high,

Then moves his head, as though he said,

here am I!”

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Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time;
Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime;
But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burden be,
The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we.
Strike in, strike in; the sparks begin to dull their rustling

red;

Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped;

Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of

clay;

Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen

here,

For the Yeo-heave-o, and the Heave away, and the sighing seaman's cheer.

In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last,
A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast.
A trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me,
What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep-
green sea!

O deep-sea diver, who might then behold such sights as thou? The hoary monster's palaces! methinks what joy 'twere now To go plump, plunging down amid the assembly of the

whales,

And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their Scourging tails!

Then deep in tangle woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn, And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory

horn;

To leave the subtle sworder-fish, of bony blade forlorn,
And for the ghastly grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to

scorn.

O broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine?

The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line;
And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,
Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play ;
But, shamer of our little sports, forgive the name I gave;
A fisher's joy is to destroy thine office is to save.

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O lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping

band,

Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee

bend,

With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient

friend;

Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee,

Thine iron side would swell with pride, thou'dst leap within the sea!

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Give honor to their memories, who left the pleasant strand To shed their blood so freely for the love of Fatherland Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave

So freely for a restless bed amid the tossing wave

Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among!

SAMUEL FERGUSON.

TACT AND TALÈNT.

TALENT is something, but tact is everything. Talent is serious, sober, grave, and respectable: tact is all that, and more too. It is not a sixth sense, but it is the life of all the five. It is the open eye, the quick ear, the judging taste, the keen smell, and the lively touch; it is the interpreter of all riddles, the surmounter of all difficulties, the remover of all obstacles. It is useful in all places, and at all times; it is useful in solitude, for it shows a man his way into the world; it is useful in society, for it shows him his way through the world.

Talent is power, tact is skill; talent is weight, tact is momentum; talent knows what to do, tact knows how to do it; talent makes a man respectable, tact will make him respected; talent is wealth, tact is ready money.

For all the practical purposes of life, tact carries it against talent, ten to one. Take them to the theatre, and put them against each other on the stage, and talent shall produce you a tragedy that will scarcely live long enough to be condemned, while tact keeps the house in a roar, night after night, with its successful farces. There is no want of dramatic talent, there is no want of dramatic tact; but they are seldom together: so we have successful pieces which are not respectable, and respectable pieces which are not successful.

Take them to the bar, and let them shake their learned

curls at each other in legal rivalry. Talent sees its way clearly, but tact is first at its journey's end. Talent has many a compliment from the bench, but tact touches fees from attorneys and clients. Talent speaks learnedly and logically, tact triumphantly. Talent makes the world wonder that it gets on no faster, tact excites astonishment that it gets on so fast. And the secret is, that tact has no weight to carry; it makes no false steps; it hits the right nail on the head; it loses no time; it takes all hints; and, by keeping

its eye on the weathercock, is ready to take advantage of every wind that blows.

Take them into the church. Talent has always something worth hearing, tact is sure of abundance of hearers; talent may obtain a living, tact will make one; talent gets a good name, tact a great one; talent convinces, tact converts; talent is an honor to the profession, tact gains honor from the profession.

Take them to court. Talent feels its weight, tact finds its way; talent commands, tact is obeyed; talent is honored with approbation, and tact is blessed by preferment.

Place them in the senate. Talent has the ear of the house, but tact wins its heart, and has its votes; talent is fit for employment, but tact is fitted for it. Tact has a knack of slipping into place with a sweet silence and glibness of movement, as a billiard-ball insinuates itself into the pocket. It seems to know everything, without learning anything. It has served an invisible and extemporary apprenticeship; it wants no drilling; it never ranks in the awkward squad; it has no left hand, no deaf ear, no blind side. It puts on no looks of wondrous wisdom, it has no air of profundity, but plays with the details of place as dexterously as a well-taught hand flourishes over the keys of the piano-forte. It has all the air of commonplace, and all the force and power of genius.

LONDON Atlas.

THE REVOLUTIONARY RISING.

OUT of the North the wild news came,

Far flashing on its wings of flame,
Swift as the boreal light which flies.

At midnight through the startled skies.
And there was tumult in the air,

The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat,
And through the wide land everywhere
The answering tread of hurrying feet;

While the first oath of Freedom's gun
Came on the blast from Lexington;
And Concord roused, no longer tame,
Forgot her old baptismal name,
Made bare her patriot arm of power,
And swelled the discord of the hour.

Within its shade of elm and oak

The church of Berkley Manor stood;
There Sunday found the rural folk,

And some esteemed of gentle blood.
In vain their feet with loitering tread
Passed mid the graves where rank is naught;
All could not read the lesson taught

In that republic of the dead.

How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk,

The vale with peace and sunshine full,

Where all the happy people walk,

Decked in their homespun flax and wool,
Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom;

And every maid, with simple art,

Wears on her breast, like her own heart,

A bud whose depth's are all perfume;
While every garment's gentle stir
Is breathing rose and lavender.

The pastor came; his snowy locks

Hallowed his brow of thought and care;
And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks,
He led into the house of prayer.

Then soon he rose; the prayer was strong;
The psalm was warrior David's song;
The text, a few short words of might:
"The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"
He spoke of wrongs too long endured,
Of sacred rights to be secured;
Then from his patriot tongue of flame
The startling words for Freedom came.

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