BLACK-EYED SUSAN. ALL in the Downs the fleet was moored, 'Oh, where shall I my true-love find? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, William, who high upon the yard Rocked by the billows to and fro, Soon as the well-known voice he heard, He sigh'd and cast his eyes below; The cord flies swiftly through his glowing hands, And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. "O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, My vows shall always true remain, Let me kiss off that falling tear,— Change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall be "Believe not what the landsmen say, Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind; They tell thee sailors, when away, In every port a mistress find; Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, The boatswain gave the dreadful word, The sails their swelling bosoms spread; No longer she must stay on board,— JOHN GAY. THE TEMPEST. WE were crowded in the cabin, It was midnight on the waters 'Tis a fearful thing in Winter To be shattered by the blast, So we shuddered there in silence,— As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy in his prayers, "We are lost!" the captain shouted But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand : Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spoke in better cheer, When the morn was shining clear. If all were sun and never rain, CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. QUA CURSUM VENTUS. As ships becalmed at eve, that lay Are scarce, long leagues apart, descried; When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, E'en so, but why the tale reveal Of those whom, year by year unchanged, Brief absence join'd anew to feel, Astounded, soul from soul estranged? At dead of night their sails were filled, Or wist what first with dawn appeared. To veer, how vain! On, onward strain, But O blithe breeze! and O great seas, On your wide plain they join again, One port, methought, alike they sought- At last, at last, unite them there! ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN GREEN be the turf above thee, None knew thee but to love thee, Tears fell, when thou wert dying, When hearts whose truth was proven, There should a wreath be woven And I, who woke each morrow It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow, And feel I cannot now. |