But these extinguished, and his prayer addressed

To Heaven in hope, he calmly sank to

rest.

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'ershroud:

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 last.

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, flight 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 complaining cry;

Or clap the sleek white pinion on the breast,

And in the restless ocean dip for rest.

Darkness begins to reign; the louder

1805 he retired from public life, and

Our girls and our dear native shore! For if some hard rock we should split on,

We shall never see them any more. But sailors were born for all weathers, Great guns let it blow, high or low, Our duty keeps us to our tethers,

And where the gale drives we must go.

When we enter'd the Straits of Gibraltar

I verily thought she'd have sunk, For the wind began so for to alter,

She yaw'd just as tho' she was drunk. The squall tore the mainsail to shivers, Helm a-weather, the hoarse boatswain

But sailors were born for all weathers, Great guns let it blow, high or low, Our duty keeps us to our tethers,

And where the gale drives we must go.

The storm came on thicker and faster, 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 Handsail,

By a blast that came furious and hard, Just while we were furling the mainsail, Were every soul swept from the yard. But sailors were born for all weathers, Great guns let it blow, high or low, Our duty keeps us to our tethers, And where the gale drives we must

go.

Poor Ben, Sam, and Dick cried peccavi, | As for I, at the risk of my neck,

While they sank down in peace to old Davy,

Caught a rope, and so landed on deck. Well, what would you have? We were stranded,

And out of a fine jolly crew

Of three hundred that sail'd, never landed

But I and, I think, twenty-two. But sailors were born for all weathers, Great guns let it blow, high or low, Our duty keeps us to our tethers, And where the gale drives we must go.

But though false friendship's sails were

furled,

Though cut adrift by all the world, I'd all the world in lovely Nan.

I love my duty, love my friend,
Love truth and merit to defend,

To moan their loss who hazard ran;
I love to take an honest part,
Love beauty with a spotless heart,

By manners love to show the man; To sail through life by honor's breeze : 'Twas all along of loving these

First made me doat on lovely Nan.

LOVELY NAN.

SWEET is the ship that under sail
Spreads her white bosom to the gale;
Sweet, oh! sweet's the flowing can;
Sweet to poise the laboring oar,
That tugs us to our native shore,
When the boatswain pipes the barge

to man;

Sweet sailing with a favoring breeze; But, oh! much sweeter than all these, Is Jack's delight - his lovely Nan.

The needle, faithful to the north,
To show of constancy the worth,

A curious lesson teaches man;
The needle, time may rust- - a squall
Capsize the binnacle and all,

Let seamanship do all it can; My love in worth shall higher rise: Nor time shall rust, nor squalls capsize My faith and truth to lovely Nan.

When in the bilboes I was penned
For serving of a worthless friend,

And every creature from me ran;
No ship performing quarantine
Was ever so deserted seen;

None hailed me- woman, child, or

man:

TOM BOWLING.

HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,

The darling of our crew;
No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
For Death has broach'd him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,
But now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare;

His friends were many and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair:
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah, many's the time and oft!
But mirth is turned to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weathe
When He, who all commands,
Shall give, to call life's crew together,
The word to pipe all hands.

Thus Death, who kings and tars dis patches,

In vain Tom's life has doffed; For though his body's under hatches, His soul is gone aloft.

TO THE MUSES.

WHETHER on Ida's shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the East,
The chambers of the Sun that now
From ancient melody have ceased;

Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,

Or the green corners of the Earth, Or the blue regions of the air, Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove

Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove;

Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry:

How have you left your ancient love That bards of old enjoyed in you! The languid strings do scarcely move, The sound is forced, the notes are few.

INTRODUCTION. [From Songs of Innocence.] PIPING down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me:

NIGHT.

THE sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight

Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
Where flocks have ta'en delight;
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
The feet of angels bright:
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
On each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest,
Where birds are covered warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm.
If they see any weeping

That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.

When wolves and tigers howl for prey
They pitying stand and weep,