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0, gallant ship, thợu didst bear with thee
The gay and the breaking heart, And weeping eyes look'd out to see
Thy white-spread sails depart.
Of many a perill'd ship,
And pray with trembling lip.
The wind piped shrill and high;
That flicker'd not to the eye: The black cloud came, like a banner, down,
And down came the shrieking blast ; The quivering ship on her beams is thrown,
And gone are helm and mast. Helmless, but on before the gale,
She ploughs the deep-trough'd wave : A gurgling sound-a frenzied wail
And the ship hath found a grave. And thus is the fate of the acorn told,
That fell from the old oak tree, And the woodland Fays in the frosty mould
Preserved for its destiny.
THE BLOOD HORSE.
BY BARRY CORNWALL.
GAMARA is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble breed, Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known, Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, But blown abroad by the pride within ! His mane is like a river flowing, And his eyes like embers glowing In the darkness of the night, And his pace as swift as light. Look! how 'round his straining throat Grace and shifting beauty float! Sinewy strength is on his reins, And the red blood gallops through his veing Richer, redder, never ran Through the boasting heart of man He can trace his lineage higher Than the Bourbons dare aspireDouglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, Or O'Brien's blood itself!
He, who hath no peer, was born
And the last of that great line
ADMIRED Miranda ! Indeed the top of admiration ; worth What's dearest to the world! Full many a lady I have eyed with best regard ; and many a time The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my too diligent ear ; for several virtues Have I liked several women; never any With so full soul but some defect in her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owned And put it to the foil. But you, O you, So perfect, and so peerless, are created Of every creature's best.
BY BARRY CORNWALL.
Thou hast beauty bright and fair,
Manner noble, aspect free,
Thou hast reason quick and strong,
Wit that envious men admire,
Hermione, Hermione ?
Something thou dost want, О queen!
(As the gold doth ask alloy), Tears, amid thy laughter seen, Pity, mingling with thy joy.
This is all we ask from thes,
THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.
BY H. T. TUCKERMAN.
For Fame life's meaner records vainly strive, While, in fresh beauty, thy high dreams survive. Still Vesta's temple throws its classic shade O'er the bright foam of Tivoli's cascade, And to one Venus still we bow the knee, Divine as if just issued from the sea; In fancy's trance, yet deem on nights serene, We hear the revels of the fairy queen, That Dian's smile illumes the marble fane, And Ceres whispers in the rustling grain, That Ariel's music has not died away, And in his shell still floats the culprit Fay. The sacred beings of poetic birth Immortal live to consecrate the earth. San Marco's pavement boasts no Doge's tread, And all its ancient pageantry has fled; Yet as we muse beneath some dim arcade, The mind's true kindred glide from ruin's shade : In every passing eye that sternly beams, We start to meet the Shylock of our dreams; Each maiden form, where virgin grace is seen, Crosses our path with Portia's noble mien,