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1681.-THE SEA. The sea! the sea! the open sea ! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round; It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies. 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 rollid, 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.

A home, if such a place may be
For her who lives on the wide, wide sea,
On the craggy ice, in the frozen air,
And only seeketh her rocky lair
To warm her young, and to teach them to

spring At once o'er the waves on their stormy

wing! O'er the deep !-o'er the deep! Where the whale, and the shark, and the

sword-fish sleepOutfiying the blast and the driving rain, The petrel telleth her tale-in vain ; For the mariner curseth the warning bird Which bringeth him news of the storm un.

heard ! Ah! thus does the prophet of good or ill Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still; Yet he ne'er falters—so, petrel, spring Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing!

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 match'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 dis

dains,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.


Now, through the copse where the fox is Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight; found,

The Owl hath his share of good : And over the stream at a mighty bound, If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight, And over the high lands, and over the low. He is lord in the dark greenwood ! O'er furrows, o'er meadows, the hunters go! Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mateAway !-as a hawk flies full at his prey,

They are each unto each a pride; So flieth the hunter, away,-away!

Thrice fonder perhaps, since a strange, dark From the burst at the cover till set of sun,

fate When the red fox dies, and—the day is done ! Hath rent them from all beside!

So, when the night falls, and dogs do howl, Hark, hark !-What sound on the wind is Sing Ho! for the the reign of the Horned Owl ! borne ?

We know not alway 'Tis the conquering voice of the hunter's

Who are kings by day, horn :

But the King of the night is the bold brown The horn,—the horn!

Owl ! The merry, bold voice of the hunter's horn.

TV. B. Proctcr.- Born 1798. Sound ! Sound the horn! To the hunter good What's the gully deep or the roaring flood ? Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds,

1686.-A SONG FOR THE SEASONS. At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds. Oh, what delight can a mortal lack,

When the merry lark doth gild

With his song the summer hours, When he once is firm on his horse's back,

And their nests the swallows build With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong,

In the roofs and tops of towers, And the blast of the horn for his morning

And the golden broom-flower burns song ?

All about the waste, Hark, hark !-Now, home! and dream till

And the maiden May returns

With a pretty haste, -
Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter's horn!

Then, how merry are the times !
The horn,—the horn!

The Summer times ! the Spring times ! Oh, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's

Now, from off the ashy stone horn !

The chilly midnight cricket crieth,
B. W. Procter.-Born 1798. 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!
1685.—THE OWL.

Now, how solemn are the times ! In the hollow tree, in the old gray tower,

The Winter times! the Night times ! The spectral Owl doth dwell;

Yet, be merry : all around Dull, hated, despised in the sunshine hour,

Is through one vast change revolving : But at dusk he's abroad and well!

Even Night, who lately frown'd, Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him

Is in paler dawn dissolving. All mock him outright, by day;

Earth will burst her fetters strange, But at night, when the woods grow still and

And in Spring grow free; dim,

All things in the world will change, The boldest will shrink away!

Save—my love for thee! Oh, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl,

Sing, then, hopeful are all times ! Then, then, is the reign of the Horned Owl !

Winter, Summer, Spring times ! And the Owl hath a bride who is fond and

W. B. Procter.Born 1798. bold, And loveth the wood's deep gloom ; And, with eyes like the shine of the moon.

stone cold, She awaiteth her ghastly groom ;


Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings,
As she waits in her tree so still,

How many summers, love,
But when her heart heareth his flapping

Have I been thine ? wings,

How many days, thou dove, She hoots out her welcome shrill !

Hast thou been mine? Oh, when the moon shines, and dogs do howl,

Time, like the wing'd wind Then, then, is the joy of the Horned Owl !

When 't bends the flowers,


Hath left no mark behind,

To count the hours !

But now we'll go

Where the waters flow, And make us a bed where none shall know. The world is cruel—the world is untrue ; Our foes are many, our friends are few; No work, no bread, however we sue ! What is there left for me to do,

But fly-fly

From the cruel sky,
And hide in the deepest deeps—and die ?

W. B. Procter.-Born 1798.

Some weight of thought, though loth,

On thee he leaves;
Some lines of care round both

Perhaps he weaves ;
Some fears,-a soft regret

For joys scarce known;
Sweet looks we half forget ;-

All else is flown!
Ah — With what thankless heart

I mourn and sing !
Look, where our children start,

Like sudden Spring !
With tongues all sweet and low,

Like a pleasant rhyme,
They tell how much I owe
To thee and Time !

W. B. Procter.-Born 1798.



Soft.y woo away her breath,

Gentle Death!
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 evermore-
For ever-evermore!

W, B. Procter.- Born 1798.


Peace! what can tears avail ?
She lies all dumb and pale,

And from her eye
The spirit of lovely life is fading-

And she must die!
Why locks the lover wroth—the frien:1 up-

braiding ?
Reply, reply!
Hath she not dwelt too long
'Midst pain, and grief, and wrong ?

Then why not die ?
Why suffer again her doom of sorrow,

And hopeless lie ?
Why nurse the trembling dream until to.

morrow ?
Reply, reply!
Death! Take her to thine arms,
In all her stainless charms!

And with her fly
To heavenly haunts, where, clad in bright-

ness, The angels lie! 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, О 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.

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. IV. Procter.-Born 1793.

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.

We are born; we laugh; we weep;

We love ; we droop; we die !
Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep?

Why do we live or die ?
Who knows that secret deep ?

Alas! not I.
hy doth the violet spring

Unseen by human eye?
Why do the radiant seasons bring

Sweet thoughts that quickly fly?
Why do our fond hearts cling

To things that die ?
We toil—through pain and wrong;

We fight-and fly ;
We love ; we lose ; and then, ere long,

Stone-dead we lie.
A life! is all thy song :
“ Endure and—die !"

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 !)


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's sight!

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 fleeter-

Oh! 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.

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.

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 snffering 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;

1698.—THE VOICE OF THE MORNING. The voice of the morning is calling to child.

hood, From streamlet, and valley, and mountain

it calls,

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