And whilst he stood, the watery strife
Encroached on every hand,

And the ground decreas'd—his moments of life
Seem'd measur'd, like Time's, by sand;

And still the waters foam'd in, like ale,
In front, and on either flank,

He knew that Goodwin and Co. must fail,
There was such a run on the bank.

A little more, and a little more,

The surges came tumbling in;

He sang the evening hymn twice o'er,
And thought of every sin!

Each flounder and plaice lay cold at his heart,

As cold as his marble slab;

And he thought he felt, in every part,

The pincers of scalded crab.

The squealing lobsters that he had boil'd,
And the little potted shrimps,

All the horny prawns, he had ever spoil'd,
Gnaw'd into his soul, like imps!

And the billows were wandering to and fro,
And the glorious sun was sunk,

And Day, getting black in the face, as tho'
Of the night-shade she had drunk!

Had there been but a smuggler's cargo adrift,

One tub, or keg, to be seen,

It might have given his spirits a lift

Or an anker where Hope might lean!

But there was not a box or a beam afloat,
To raft him from that sad place;

Not a skiff, not a yawl, or a mackarel boat,
Nor a smack upon Neptune's face.

At last, his lingering hopes to buoy,
He saw a sail and a mast,

And called "Ahoy!"-but it was not a hoy,
And so the vessel went past.

And with saucy wing that flapp'd in his face,
The wild bird about him flew,

With a shrilly scream, that twitted his case,
"Why, thou art a sea-gull too!"

And lo! the tide was over his feet;
Oh! his heart began to freeze,
And slowly to pulse:-in another beat
The wave was up to his knees!

He was deafen'd amidst the mountain-tops,
And the salt spray blinded his eyes,
And wash'd away the other salt-drops
That grief had caused to arise:-

But just as his body was all afloat,

And the surges above him broke,

He was saved from the hungry deep by a boat, Of Deal-(but builded of oak).

The skipper gave him a dram, as he lay,
And chafed his shivering skin;

And the Angel return'd that was flying away
With the spirit of Peter Fin!

U

AS IT FELL UPON A DAY.

OH! what's befallen Bessy Brown,
She stands so squalling in the street;
She's let her pitcher tumble down,
And all the water's at her feet!

The little school-boys stood about,

And laughed to see her pumping, pumping; Now with a curtsey to the spout,

And then upon her tiptoes jumping.

Long time she waited for her neighbours,

To have their turns:-but she must lose
The watery wages of her labours,-
Except a little in her shoes!

Without a voice to tell her tale,
And ugly transport in her face;
All like a jugless nightingale,

She thinks of her bereaved case.

At last she sobs-she cries-she screams!-
And pours her flood of sorrows out,
From eyes and mouth, in mingled streams,
Just like the lion on the spout.

For well poor Bessy knows her mother
Must lose her tea, for water's lack,
That Sukey burns-and baby-brother
Must be dry-rubb'd with huck-a-back!