THE ENGLISH SHIP BY MOONLIGHT.
He wanders at large, while maidens admire
His raven hair and his eyes of fire;
They mark his cheek's rich tawny hue,
With the deep carnation flushing through.
He laughs aloud, and they covet his teeth,
All pure and white, as their own pearl wreath;
And the courtly dame and damsel mild
Will turn to gaze on the gipsy child.
Up with the sun, he is roving along,
Whistling to mimic the blackbird's song;
He wanders at nightfall to startle the owl,
And is baying again to the watch-dog's howl.
His limbs are unshackled, his spirit is bold,
He is free from the evils of fashion and gold;
His dower is scant, and his life is wild,
But kings might envy the gipsy child.
THE ENGLISH SHIP BY MOONLIGHT.
THE world below hath not for me
Such a fair and glorious sight
As an English ship on a rippling sea
In the full moon's placid light.
My heart leaps high as I fix my eye
On her dark and sweeping hull,
Laying its breast on the billowy nest,
Like the tired, sleeping gull.
The masts spring up, all tall and bold,
With their heads among the stars;
The white sails gleam in the silvery beam
Brailed up to the branching spars.
The wind just breathing to unroll
A flag that bears no stain.
Proud ship! that need'st no other scroll
To warrant thy right on the main.
The sea-boy hanging on the shrouds
Chants out his fitful song,
And watches the scud of fleecy clouds
That melt as it floats along.
Oh! what is there on the sluggard land
That I love so well to mark
In the hallowed light of the still midnight
As I do a dancing bark?
The ivied tower looks well in that hour, And so does an old church spire, When the gilded vane and gothic pane Seem tinged with quivering fire.
The hills shine out in the mellow ray,
The lone bower gathers a charm,
And beautiful is the chequering play
On the willow's graceful arm.
But the world below holds not for me
Such a fair and glorious sight
As a brave ship floating on the sea
In the full moon's placid light.
How many thousands are wakening now!
Some to the songs from the forest bough,
To the rustling of leaves at the lattice pane,
To the chiming fall of the early rain.
And some far out on the deep mid-sea
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee,
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side,
That holds through the tumult her path of pride.
And some-oh! well may their hearts rejoice-
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice:
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone,
When from the board and the earth 't is gone.
And some in the camp to the bugle's breath
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath,
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun,
Which tells that a field must ere night be won.
And some in the gloomy convict cell,
To the dull deep note of the warning bell,
As it heavily calls them forth to die,
While the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky.
And some to the peal of the hunter's horn,
And some to the sounds from the city borne ;
And some to the rolling of torrent floods
Far 'midst old mountains and solemn woods,
So are we roused on this chequered earth,
Each unto light hath a daily birth.
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet
Be the voices which first our upspringing meet,
But One must the sound be, and One the call,
Which from the dust shall awake us all!
One, though to several and distant dooms-
How shall the sleepers arise from their tombs ?
Where the strongest lance may fail,
Where the wariest eyes may be beguiled,
And the stoutest heart may quail;
Where the foes are gathered on every hand,
And rest not day or night,
And the feeble little ones must stand
In the thickest of the fight."
When the strife and the toil are o'er ;
The Angel of God, who calm and mild,
Says we need fight no more;
Who driveth away the demon band,
Bids the din of the battle cease,
Takes the banner and spear from our failing hand, And proclaims an eternal peace."
"Let me die, father! I tremble and fear To yield in that terrible strife."
"The crown must be won for heaven, dear,
In the battle-field of life.
My child, though thy foes are strong and tried,
He loveth the weak and small;
The angels of heaven are on thy side,
And God is over all!"
THE ENGLISHMAN.
THERE'S a land that bears a world-known name, Though it is but a little spot;
say 'tis first on the scroll of fame,
And who shall say it is not?
Of the deathless ones who shine and live
In arms, in arts, or song,
The brightest the whole wide world can give
To that little land belong.
'Tis the star of earth, deny it who can! The island home of an Englishman.
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