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But these extinguished, and his prayer
addressed To Heaven in hope, he calmly sank to
A STORM ON THE EAST COAST.
(From The Borough, Letter i.]
VIEW now the winter storm! above, one
cloud, Black and unbroken, all the skies o'er
shroud : The unwieldy porpoise through the day
before Had rolled in view of boding men on
shore; And sometimes hid and sometimes
showed his form, Dark as the cloud and furious as the
storm. All where the eye delights yet dreads
to roam, The breaking billows cast the flying foam Upon the billows rising --all the deep Is restless change; the waves so swelled
and steep, Breaking and sinking, and the sunken
swells, Nor one, one moment, in its station
dwells : But nearer land you may the billows
trace, As if contending in their watery chase; May watch the mightiest till the shoal
they reach, Then break and hurry to their utmost
stretch; Curled as they come, they strike with
furious force, And then, reflowing, take their grating
course, Raking the rounded flints, which ages
past Rolled by their rage, and shall to ages
Far off the petrel in the troubled way Swims with her brood, or flutters in the
spray; She rises often, often drops again, And sports at ease on the tempestuous
main. High o'er the restless deep, above the
reach Of gunners' hope, vast flocks of wild
duck stretch; Far as the eye can glance on either side, In a broad space and level line they
glide; All in their wedge-like figures from the
north Day after day, fight after flight, go
forth. In-shore their passage tribes of sea-gulle
urge, And drop for prey within the sweeping
surge; Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly Far back, then turn and all their force
apply, While to the storm they give their com
plaining cry; Or clap the sleek white pinion on the
breast, And in the restless ocean dip for rest. Darkness begins to reign; the louder
wind Appals the weak, and awes the firmer
But frights not him whom evening and
In part conceal — yon prowler on his
way; Lo, he has something seen; he runs
apace, As if he fear'd companion in the chase; He sees .his prize, and now he turns
again, Slowly and sorrowing
search in vain?" Gruffly he answers, “ 'Tis a sorry sight! A seaman's body: there'll be more to
1745-1814. (BORN at Southampton, 1745. An English actor, dramatist, and distinguished sea-song writer, educated for the church, but going to London at the age of sixteen, he produced an opera called The Shepherd's Artifice, which was brought out at Covent Garden. In 1778 he was appointed musical manager at Covent Garden. He wrote no less than goo songs according to some and 1200 according to others, many of which became very popular. In 1805 he retired from public life, and received a pension of £200 per annum. Died at Pentonville in 1814.]
BLOW HIGH, BLOW LOW. Our girls and our dear native shore !
For if some hard rock we should split Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear,
on, The main-mast by the board;
We shall never see them any more. My heart, with thoughts of thee, my But sailors were born for all weathers, dear,
Great guns let it blow, high or low, And love well stored,
Our duty keeps us to our tethers, Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear,
And where the gale drives we must The roaring winds, the raging sea,
When we enter'd the Straits of GibSafe moored with thee!
I verily thought she'd have sunk, Aloft while mountains high we go, For the wind began so for to alter,
The whistling winds that scud along, She yaw'd just as tho' she was drunk. And surges roaring from below,
The squall tore the mainsail to shivers, Shall my signal be,
Helm a-weather, the hoarse boatswain To think on thee;
cries; And this shall be my song:
Brace the foresail athwart, see she Blow high, blow low, &c.
As through the rough tempest she And on that night when all the crew
flies. The memory of their former lives But sailors were born for all weathers, O’er flowing cans of Aip renew,
Great guns let it blow, high or low, And drink their sweethearts and their Our duty keeps us to our tethers, wives,
And where the gale drives we must I'll heave a sigh, and think on thee;
go. And as the ship rolls on the sea, The burden of my song shall be —
The storm came on thicker and faster, Blow high, blow low, &c.
As black just as pitch was the sky, When truly a doleful disaster
Befel three poor sailors and I.
Ben Buntline, Sam Shroud, and Dick
By a blast that came furious and hard,
Just while we were furling the mainsail, I SAIL’D from the Downs in the “Nancy,” Were every soul swept from the yard. My jib how she smack'd through the But sailors were born for all weathers, breeze!
Great guns let it blow, high or low, She's a vessel as tight to my fancy Our duty keeps us to our tethers, As ever sail'd on the salt seas.
And where the gale drives we must So auieu to the white cliffs of Britain,
Poor Ben, Sam, and Dick cried peccavi, | But though false friendship's sails were As for I, at the risk of my neck,
furled, While they sank down in peace to old Though cut adrift by all the world, Davy,
I'd all the world in lovely Nan.
Love truth and merit to defend,
To moan their loss who hazard ran; Of three hundred that sail'd, never I love to take an honest part, landed
Love beauty with a spotless heart, But I and, I think, twenty-two.
By manners love to show the man; But sailors were born for all weathers, To sail through life by honor's breeze :
Great guns let it blow, high or low, 'Twas all along of loving these Our duty keeps us to our tethers,
First made me doat on lovely Nan. And where the gale drives we must
No more he'll hear the tempest howling, That tugs us to our native shore,
For Death has broach'd him to. When the boatswain pipes the barge His form was of the manliest beauty, to man;
His heart was kind and soft;
Tom never from his word departed, The needle, faithful to the north,
His virtues were so rare; To show of constancy the worth, His friends were many and true-hearted, A curious lesson teaches man;
His Poll was kind and fair: The needle, time may rust - a squall And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, Capsize the binnacle and all,
Ah, many's the time and oft! Let seamanship do all it can; But mirth is turned to melancholy, My love in worth shall higher rise : For Tom is gone aloft. Nor time shall rust, nor squalls capsize My faith and truth to lovely Nan. Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather
When He, who all commands, When in the bilboes I was penned Shall give, to call life's crew together, For serving of a worthless friend,
The word to pipe all hands. And every creature from me ran; Thus Death, who kings and tars dis. No ship performing quarantine
patches, Was ever so deserted seen;
In vain Tom's life has doffed; None hailed me woman, child, or For though his body's under hatches,
His soul is gone aloft.
1757-1827. [WILLIAM BLAKE was born in London at No. 28, Broad Street, Golden Square, on the 28th November, 1757; he died in Fountain Court, Strand, on the 12th of August, 1827. His Poetical Sketches were published in 1783, and the Songs of Innocence in 1787. In 1787 was also published The Book of Thel; and this was followed in 1790 by The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, in 1791 by The French Revolution, and in 1793 by The Gates of Paradise, the Visions of the Daughters of Albion, and the America. The Songs of Experience, designed as a companion series to the earlier Songs of Innocence, were issued in 1794. Of the later productions of the poet nearly all belonged to the class of prophetic books. To the year 1794 belong the Europe and The Book of Urizen; in 1795 appeared The Song of Los and The Book of Abania, and in 1804 the Jerusalem and the Milton.]
TO THE MUSES.
NIGHT WHETHER on Ida's shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the East, The sun descending in the west, The chambers of the Sun that now
The evening star does shine; From ancient melody have ceased; The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine. Whether in Heaven ye wander fair, The moon, like a flower
Or the green corners of the Earth, In heaven's high bower, Or the blue regions of the air,
With silent delight Where the melodious winds have
Sits and smiles on the night. birth;
Farewell, green fields and happy grove, Whether on crystal rocks ye rove Where flocks have ta'en delight; Beneath the bosom of the sea,
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move Wandering in many a coral grove; The feet of angels bright: Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry:
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing, How have you left your ancient love On each bud and blossom, That bards of old enjoyed in you!
On each sleeping bosom.
Where birds are covered warm;
To keep them all from harm.
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping, [From Songs of Innocence.]
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey And he laughing said to me:
They pitying stand and weep,