I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!

I am where I would ever be;

With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go;

If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love, oh, how I love to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the sou'west blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more,
And backward flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;
And a mother she was, and is, to me;
For I was born on the open sea!

The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise roll'd,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcomed to life the ocean-child!

I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers, a sailor's life,
With wealth to spend and a power to range,
But never have sought nor sigh'd for change;
And Death, whenever he comes to me,
Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea!

B. W. Procter.-Born 1798.

1683. THE SEA-IN CALM. Look what immortal floods the sunset pours Upon us-Mark! how still (as though in dreams

Bound) the once wild and terrible ocean seems!

How silent are the winds! no billow roars; But all is tranquil as Elysian shores.

The silver margin which aye runneth round
The moon-enchanted sea, hath here no sound;
Even Echo speaks not on these radiant
moors!

What is the giant of the ocean dead,
Whose strength was all namatch'd beneath

the sun?

No he reposes! Now his toils are done;
More quiet than the babbling brook is he.
So mightiest powers by deepest calms are fed,
And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest
be!

B. W. Procter.-Born 1798 .

1682. THE STORMY PETREL. A thousand miles from land are we, Tossing about on the roaring seaFrom billow to bounding billow cast, Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast. The sails are scatter'd abroad like weeds; The strong masts shake like quivering reeds; The mighty cables and iron chains;

The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,

They strain and they crack; and hearts like

stone

Their natural, hard, proud strength disown.

Up and down!-up and down!

From the base of the wave to the billow's crown,

And amidst the flashing and feathery foam, The stormy petrel finds a home;

1684. THE HUNTER'S SONG. Rise! Sleep no more! 'Tis a noble morn. The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn, And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound,

Under the steaming, steaming ground,
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by,
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!
Our horses are ready and steady.-So, ho!
I'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's bow.
Hark, hark!-Who calleth the maiden Morn
From her sleep in the woods and the stubble
corn ?

The horn, the horn!
The merry, sweet ring of the hunter's horn.

In the hollow tree, in the old gray tower,
The spectral Owl doth dwell;

Dull, hated, despised in the sunshine hour,
But at dusk he's abroad and well!

Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him-
All mock him outright, by day;

But at night, when the woods grow still and dim,

The boldest will shrink away!

Oh, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, Then, then, is the reign of the Horned Owl!

And the Owl hath a bride who is fond and bold,

And loveth the wood's deep gloom; And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold,

She awaiteth her ghastly groom; Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, As she waits in her tree so still,

But when her heart heareth his flapping wings,

She hoots out her welcome shrill! Oh, when the moon shines, and dogs do howl, Then, then, is the joy of the Horned Owl!

Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight;
The Owl hath his share of good:

If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight,
He is lord in the dark greenwood!
Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate-
They are each unto each a pride;
Thrice fonder perhaps, since a strange, dark
fate

Hath rent them from all beside!

So, when the night falls, and dogs do howl, Sing Ho! for the the reign of the Horned Owl! We know not alway

Who are kings by day,

But the King of the night is the bold brown
Owl!
W. B. Procter.-Born 1798.

1686. A SONG FOR THE SEASONS.
When the merry lark doth gild

With his song the summer hours,
And their nests the swallows build
In the roofs and tops of towers,
And the golden broom-flower burns
All about the waste,
And the maiden May returns
With a pretty haste,-

Then, how merry are the times!
The Summer times! the Spring times!

Now, from off the ashy stone

The chilly midnight cricket crieth, And all merry birds are flown,

And our dream of pleasure dieth;
Now the once blue laughing sky
Saddens into gray,

And the frozen rivers sigh,
Pining all away!

Now, how solemn are the times!
The Winter times! the Night times!

Yet, be merry: all around

Is through one vast change revolving :
Even Night, who lately frown'd,

Is in paler dawn dissolving.
Earth will burst her fetters strange,
And in Spring grow free;

All things in the world will change,
Save-my love for thee!

Sing, then, hopeful are all times!
Winter, Summer, Spring times!
W. B. Procter.-Born 1798.

1687.-THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE.

How many summers, love,
Have I been thine?
How many days, thou dove,
Hast thou been mine?
Time, like the wing'd wind

When 't bends the flowers,

Let her leave thee with no strife,
Tender, mournful, murmuring Life
She hath seen her happy day-

She hath had her bud and blossom;
Now she pales and shrinks away,
Earth, into thy gentle bosom !

She hath done her bidding here,
Angels dear!

Bear her perfect soul above,

Seraph of the skies-sweet Love! Good she was, and fair in youth; And her mind was seen to soar, And her heart was wed to truth: Take her, then, for evermoreFor ever-evermore!

W. B. Procter.-Born 1798.

Wilt bear her there, O Death! in all her whiteness?

Reply, reply!

W. B. Procter.-Born 1798.

1689. THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG. Sleep! The ghostly winds are blowing! No moon abroad-no star is glowing; The river is deep, and the tide is flowing To the land where you and I are going! We are going afar,

Beyond moon or star,

To the land where the sinless angel are!

I lost my heart to your heartless sire,
('T was melted away by his looks of fire)-
Forgot my God, and my father's ire,
All for the sake of a man's desire;

1691.-A BRIDAL DIRGE.
Weave no more the marriage chain!
All unmated is the lover;
Death has ta'en the place of Pain;
Love doth call on love in vain;

Life and years of hope are over!
No more want of marriage bell!

No more need of bridal favour! Where is she to wear them well? You beside the lover, tell!

Gone-with all the love he gave her!

Paler than the stone she lies

Colder than the winter's morning! Wherefore did she thus despise (She with pity in her eyes)

Mother's care, and lover's warning?

Youth and beauty-shall they not Last beyond a brief to-morrow? No-a prayer and then forgot! This the truest lover's lot,

This the sum of human sorrow!

B. W. Procter.-Born 1798.

Touch us gently, Time!

We've not proud nor soaring wings:" Our ambition, our content,

Lies in simple things.
Humble voyagers are we,
O'er life's dim, unsounded sea,
Seeking only some calm clime:
Touch us gently, gentle Time!

B. W. Procter.-Born 1798.

1692.-HERMIONE.

Thou hast beauty bright and fair,
Manner noble, aspect free,
Eyes that are untouch'd by care:
What, then, do we ask from thee,
Hermione, Hermione ?

Thou hast reason quick and strong,
Wit that envious men admire,
And a voice, itself a song!

What then can we still desire ?
Hermione, Hermione.

Something thou dost want, O queen!
(As the gold doth ask alloy),
Tears-amid thy laughter seen,
Pity mingled with thy joy.

This is all we ask from thee,
Hermione, Hermione !

B. W. Procter.-Born 1798.

1693.-A POET'S THOUGHT.
Tell me, what is a poet's thought?
Is it on the sudden born?
Is it from the starlight caught?
Is it by the tempest taught?
Or by whispering morn?

Was it cradled in the brain?

Chain'd awhile, or nursed in night?
Was it wrought with toil and pain?
Did it bloom and fade again,
Ere it burst to light?

No more question of its birth:
Rather love its better part!
'Tis a thing of sky and earth,
Gathering all its golden worth
From the poet's heart.

B. W. Procter.-Born 1798.

1694.-A PETITION TO TIME. Touch us gently, Time!

Let us glide adown thy stream Gently-as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream. Humble voyagers are we,

Husband, wife, and children three

(One is lost-an angel, fled

To the azure overhead!)

1695.-SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL.

Sit down, sad soul, and count

The moments flying;
Come-tell the sweet amount

That's lost by sighing!

How many smiles ?-a score?
Then laugh, and count no more;
For day is dying!

Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,
And no more measure
The flight of Time, nor weep
The loss of leisure;
But here, by this lone stream,
Lie down with us, and dream
Of starry treasure!

We dream: do thou the same;
We love for ever;

We laugh, yet few we shame-
The gentle never.

Stay, then, till Sorrow dies;
Then-hope and happy skies
Are thine for ever!

B. W. Procter.-Born 1793.

1697.-THE DEATH OF THE WARRIOR KING.

There are noble heads bow'd down and pale,
Deep sounds of woe arise,

And tears flow fast around the couch
Where a wounded warrior lies;
The hue of death is gathering dark

Upon his lofty brow,

And the arm of might and valour falls,
Weak as an infant's now.

I saw him 'mid the battling hosts,
Like a bright and leading star,

Where banner, helm, and falchion gleam'd,
And flew the bolts of war.

When, in his plenitude of power

He trod the Holy Land,

I saw the routed Saracens

Flee from his blood-dark brand.

I saw him in the banquet hour
Forsake the festive throng,

To seek his favourite minstrel's haunt,
And give his soul to song;
For dearly as he loved renown,

He loved that spell-wrought strain Which bade the brave of perish'd days Light conquest's torch again.

Then seem'd the bard to cope with Time,
And triumph o'er his doom--
Another world in freshness burst
Oblivion's mighty tomb!

Again the hardy Britons rush'd

Like lions to the fight,

While horse and foot-helm, shield, and lance, Swept by his vision'd sight!

But battle shout and waving plume,
The drum's heart-stirring beat,

The glittering pomp of prosperous war,
The rush of million feet,
The magic of the minstrel's song,
Which told of victories o'er,
Are sights and sounds the dying king
Shall see shall hear no more!

It was the hour of deep midnight,
In the dim and quiet sky,

When, with sable cloak and 'broider'd pall,
A funeral train swept by;

Dull and sad fell the torches' glare
On many a stately crest-

They bore the noble warrior king
To his last dark home of rest.

Charles Swain.-Born 1803.

1698.-THE VOICE OF THE MORNING.

The voice of the morning is calling to childhood,

From streamlet, and valley, and mountain it calls,

And Mary, the loveliest nymph of the wild wood,

Is crossing the brook where the mill water falls.

Oh! lovely is Mary, her face like a vision

Once seen leaves a charm that will ever endure;

From her glance and her smile there beams something elysian :

She has but one failing-sweet Mary is poor. Her bosom is white as the hawthorn, and sweeter,

Her form light and lovesome, as maiden's should be;

Her foot like a fairy's-yet softer and fleeterOh! Mary, the morn hath no lily like thee. But narrow and low hangs the roof of her dwelling,

Her home it is humble, her birth is obscure; And though in all beauty and sweetness excelling,

She wanders neglected-for Mary is poor. Yet, oh! to her heart mother Nature hath given

The kindest affections that mortal can know;

She loves every star that sheds radiance in heaven,

She worships the flowers as God's image below.

Ah! sad 'tis to think that a being resembling The fairest in beauty, such lot should endure; But the dews that like tears on the lilies are trembling,

Are types but of Mary-for Mary is poor. C. Swain.-Born 1803.

1699. THE MOTHER'S HAND.

A wand'ring orphan child was I,—
But meanly, at the best, attired;
For oh! my mother scarce could buy
The common food each week required;
But when the anxious day had fled,
It seem'd to be her dearest joy,
To press her pale hand on my head,
And pray that God would guide her boy.
But more, each winter, more and more
Stern suffering brought her to decay;
And then an angel pass'd her door,

And bore her lingering soul away!
And I-they know not what is grief
Who ne'er knelt by a dying bed;
All other woe on earth is brief,
Save that which weeps a mother dead.

A seaman's life was soon my lot,

'Mid reckless deeds, and desperate men;

But still I never quite forgot

The prayer I ne'er should hear again;