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But these extinguished, and his prayer

addressed To Heaven in hope, he calmly sank to



(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

the spray

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


Was your

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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,

In hopes on shore
To be once more

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.
Caught a rope, and so landed on deck.
Well, what would you have? We were I love my duty, love my friend,

Love truth and merit to defend,
And out of a fine jolly crew

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



SWEET is the ship that under sail HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom
Spreads her white bosom to the gale;

Sweet, oh! sweet's the flowing can; The darling of our crew;
Sweet to poise the laboring oar,

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;
Sweet sailing with a favoring breeze; Faithful below he did his duty,
But, oh! much sweeter than all these, But now he's gone aloft.
Is Jack's delight — his lovely Nan.

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.]

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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.
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few. 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, [From Songs of Innocence.]

They pour sleep on their head,
PIPING down the valleys wild,

And sit down by their bed.
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,

When wolves and tigers howl for prey And he laughing said to me:

They pitying stand and weep,

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