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at last;

A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from

cat was cast.

O 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 't were now

To go plumb-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;

To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles

He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed

miles

Till, snorting like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls;

Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far, astonished shoals

Of his back-browsing ocean-calves; or, haply, in

a cove

Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love,

To find the long-haired mermaidens; or, hard by icy lands,

To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands.

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 't is 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

churchyard grave

So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave!

Till I stood before the portals, where of old were wont to be,

For the blind, the halt, and leper, alms and hospitality.

Still the ancient seat was standing, built against the buttress gray,

Where the clergy used to welcome weary travellers on their way;

There I sat me down in sadness, 'neath my

cheek I placed my hand,

Till the tears fell hot and briny down upon the grassy land.

There, I said in woful sorrow, weeping bitterly the while,

Was a time when joy and gladness reigned within this ruined pile ;—

Was a time when bells were tinkling, clergy preaching peace abroad,

Psalms a-singing, music ringing praises to the mighty God.

Empty aisle, deserted chancel, tower tottering to your fall,

Many a storm since then has beaten on the gray head of your wall!

Many a bitter storm and tempest has your rooftree turned away,

Since you first were formed a temple to the Lord of night and day.

Holy house of ivied gables, that were once the country's boast,

Houseless now in weary wandering are you scattered, saintly host;

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Lone you are to-day, and dismal-joyful psalms no more are heard.

Where, within your choir, her vesper screeches the cat-headed bird.

Ivy from your eaves is growing, nettles round your green hearthstone,

Winds howl where, in your corners, dropping waters make their moan,

Where the lark to early matins used their clergy forth to call,

There, alas! no tongue is stirring, save the daws upon the wall.

Refectory cold and empty, dormitory bleak and bare,

Where are now your pious uses, simple bed and frugal fare?

Gone your abbot, rule and order, broken down your altar-stones;

Naught I see beneath your shelter, save a heap of clayey bones.

Oh! the hardship-oh! the hatred, tyranny, and cruel war,

Persecution and oppression that have left you as you are!

I

myself once also prospered :-mine is, too, an altered plight;

Trouble, care, and age, have left me good for naught but grief to-night.

Gone, my motion and my vigor-gone, the use of eye and ear;

At my feet lie friends and children, powerless and corrupting here;

Woe is written on my visage, in a nut my heart

would lie

Death's deliverance were welcome-Father, let the old man die.

BOATMAN'S HYMN.

You in the storm are my castle-wall:
BARK that bears me thro' from foam and squall,
Tho' the sea should redden from bottom to tɔp,
From tiller to mast she takes no drop.
On the tide-top, the tide-top,

Wherry aroon, my land and store!
On the tide-top, the tide-top,

She is the boat can sail galore.

She dresses herself, and goes gliding on,
Like a dame in her robes of the Indian lawn;
For God has blessed her, gunnel and whale,
And oh, if you saw her stretch out to the gale!
On the tide-top, the tide-top,

Wherry aroon, my land and store!
On the tide-top, the tide-top,

She is the boat can sail galore.

Whillan, ahoy! old heart of stone,
Stooping so black o'er the beach alone,
Answer me well on the bursting brine
Saw you ever a bark like mine?

On the tide-top, the tide-top,
Wherry aroon, my land and store!
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
She is the boat can sail galore.