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So thick a haze o'erspread the sky,
They could not see the sun on high ;
The wind had blown a gale all day,
At evening it had died away.
On deck the rover takes his stand;
So dark it is, they see no land;
Quoth Sir Ralph, “ It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon."
“ Canst hear,” said one, “the breakers roar,
Yonder, methinks, should be the shore;'
Now, where we are, I cannot tell,
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape bell.”
They hear no sound, the swell is strong,
Though the wind had fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock-
“ Alas! it is the Inchcape Rock !”
Sir Ralph the rover tore his hair,
He beat himself in wild despair ; '
The waves rush in on every side,
And the vessel sinks beneath the tide.

Southey.

139.-COWPER’S LINES ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S PORTRAIT.

[ABRIDGED.) Oh! that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I saw thee last; Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me;

Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, “Grieve not my child ! chase all thy fears away!”

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son ?
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun.
Perhaps thou gav’st me, though unfelt, a kiss-
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah! that maternal smile!-it answers-Yes.'

I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nursery-window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !
But was it such ? - It was—where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown,
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more !

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return;
What ardently I wish’d, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived;
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;
But though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ;

And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble [1] coach, and wrapp'd
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capp'd,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the parsonage-house our own.
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair,
That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid ;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum, [2]
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'da
All these live legibly in memory's page,
And still shall do so to my latest age.
Ah! ne'er shall time, returning, bring the hours
When playing with thy vesture's tissued [3] flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I prick'd them into paper with a pin;
And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head and

smile ;-
Yet while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic shew of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft,
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

[1] Bauble-trifle, plaything.
[2l Confectionary plumsugar-plum.
[3] Tissued-interwoven, variegated.

140.—THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR,
When primrose tufts and daffodils
Smell sweetly from the breezy hills ;
When nightingales do softly sing,
O then we learn the time is Spring!

When trees are leafy, roses blown,
When fragrant hay is gaily mown;
When cuckoos shout and wild bees hum,
'Tis then we know that Summer's come.

When golden grain is gathered all,
When mellowed pears and apples fall ;
When booting owls at night we hear,
Joyous we say the Autumn’s near.
When trees are bare, and streams are still,
When cheerful fires the chimneys fill;
When redbreasts join our social meal,
Ah then! cold Winter's breath we feel.

Anna Maria Porter,

141.—THE CHAFFINCH'S NEST AT SEA.

In Scotland's realm, forlorn and bare,

The history chanc'd of late-
The history of a wedded pair,

A chaffinch and his mate,
The spring drew near, each felt a breast

With genial instinct fill'd ;

They pair'd, and would have built a nest,

But found not where to build.

The heaths uncover'd and the moors,

Except with snow and sleet,
Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores

Could yield them no retreat.
Long time a breeding-place they sought,

Till both grew vex'd and tired;
At length a ship arriving brought

The good so long desired.
A ship! could such a restless thing

Afford them place of rest?
Or was the merchant charged to bring

The homeless birds a nest ?

Hush !-silent readers profit most i

This racer of the sea
Prov'd kinder to them than the coast,

It served them with a tree.
But such a tree ! 'twas shaven deal,

The tree they call a mast;
And had a hollow with a wheel, [1]

Through which the tackle pass’d.
Within that cavity, aloft,

Their roofless home they fix'd ; Form'd with materials neat and soft,

Bents, [2] wool, and feathers mix’d.

[1] Hollow with a wheel-a block or pulley. [2] Bents—the stalks of a species of grass.

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