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Yet, wafted by the morning's favouring breeze,
Far from the slumb'ring flood and leaf-hung bay,
That matchless bark upon the faithless seas
Shall wind her wild and solitary way.

There haply tempest-borne, far other sounds.
Than those shall tremble thro' her quiv'ring form;
And as from surge to mightier surge she bounds,
Shall swell, ton'd infinite, the midnight storm!
In vain! she spurns the ignoble calm, and loves
To front the tempest in his gath'ring hour;
Wak'd as to life, the fleet-wing'd wonder roves
Where loudest lift the winds a voice of pow'r!

Then go, deceitful beauty! bathe thy breast

For ever where the mountain billows foam, Even as thou wilt-the hour of peace and rest Is not for thee the ocean is thy home!



THERE is a Thorn-it looks so old,
In truth you'd find it hard to say
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and

Not higher than a two year's child
It stands erect, this aged Thorn;
No leaves it has, no thorny points;
It is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.
It stands erect, and like a stone
With lichens it is overgrown.

Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown,
With lichens to the very top,
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
A melancholy crop:

Up from the earth these mosses creep,
And this poor Thorn they clasp it round
So close, you'd say that they were bent
With plain and manifest intent
To drag it to the ground;

And all had join'd in one endeavour
To bury this poor Thorn for ever.

High on a mountain's highest ridge,
Where oft the stormy winter gale
Cuts like a scythe, while thro' the clouds
It sweeps from vale to vale;

Not five yards from the mountain path,
This Thorn you on your left espy;
And to the left, three yards beyond,
You see a little muddy pond

Of water-never dry;

Though but of compass small, and bare
To thirsty suns and parching air.

And, close beside this aged Thorn,
There is a fresh and lovely sight,
A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,
Just half a foot in height.

All lovely colours there you see,
All colours that were ever seen:
And mossy net-work too is there,
As if by hand of lady fair
The work had woven been;
And cups, the darlings of the eye,
So deep is their vermilion dye.

Ah me! what lovely tints are there!
Of olive green and scarlet bright,
In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
Green, red, and pearly white.

This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss,
Which close beside the Thorn you see,
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,
Is like an infant's grave in size,
As like as like can be:

But never, never any where,
An infant's grave was half so fair.

Now would you see this aged Thorn,
This pond and beauteous hill of moss,
You must take care and choose your time
The mountain when to cross.

For oft there sits between the heap
So like an infant's grave in size,
And that same pond of which I spoke,
A woman in a scarlet cloak,

And to herself she cries,
"Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!"

At all times of the day and night
This wretched woman thither goes;
And she is known to ev'ry star,
And every wind that blows;

And there, beside the Thorn, she sits,
When the blue daylight's in the skies,
And when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still,
And to herself she cries,
"Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!"

Now wherefore, thus, by day and night,
In rain, in tempest, and in snow,
Thus to the dreary mountain-top
Does this poor woman go?

And why sits she beside the Thorn,
When the blue daylight's in the sky,
Or when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still,
And wherefore does she cry?-
Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why
Does she repeat that doleful cry?

I cannot tell; I wish I could;
For the true reason no one knows:
But would you gladly view the spot,
The spot to which she goes;

The hillock like an infant's grave,
The pond and Thorn, so old and gray;
Pass by her door-'tis seldom shut-
And if you see her in her hut,
Then to the post away!--

I never heard of such as dare
Approach the spot when she is there.



A PERILOUS life, and sad as life may
Hath the lone Fisher on the lonely sea,


In the wild waters labouring, far from home,
For some bleak pittance e'er compell'd to roam!
Few friends to cheer him through his dangerous life,
And none to aid him in the stormy strife:
Companion of the sea and silent air,
The lonely fisher thus must ever fare;

Without the comfort, hope-with scarce a friend, He looks through life, and only sees-its end!

Eternal ocean! old majestic sea!

Ever love I from shore to look on thee,
And sometimes on thy billowy back to ride,
And sometimes o'er thy summer breast to glide:
But let me live on land-where rivers run,
Where shady trees may screen me from the sun;
Where I may feel, secure, the fragrant air;
Where (whate'er toil or wearying pains I bear,)

Those eyes, which look away all human ill,
May shed on me their still, sweet, constant light,
And the little hearts I love may, day and night,
Be found beside me safe and clustering still.
Barry Cornwall.


CONSCIENCE, tremendous conscience, in his fits
Of inspiration,-whencesoe'er it came,-
Rose like a ghost, inflicting fear of death

On those who fear'd not death in fiercest battle,
And mock'd him in their martyrdom of torments :
That secret, swift, and silent messenger

Broke on them in their lonely hours;-in sleep,
In sickness; haunting them with dire suspicions
Of something in themselves that would not die,--
Of an existence elsewhere, and hereafter,
Of which tradition was not wholly silent,
Yet spake not out: its dreary oracles
Confounded superstition to conceive,
And baffled scepticism to reject.

What fear of death is like the fear beyond it?

J. Montgomery.

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