Beyond this planet's brink ;—

Yet as we erst have braved the weather, Still we may float awhile together,

As comrades on this ink!

XI.

Many a scudding gale we've had
Together, and, my gallant lad,

Some perils we have passed;

When huge and black the wave careered, And oft the giant surge appeared

The master of our mast:

XII.

'Twas thy example taught me how
To climb the billow's hoary brow,
Or cleave the raging heap-
To bound along the ocean wild,
With danger only as a child,

The waters rocked to sleep.

XIII.

Oh, who can tell that brave delight,
To see the hissing wave in might,
Come rampant like a snake!
To leap his horrid crest, and feast
One's eyes upon the briny beast,

Left couchant in the wake!

XIV.

The simple shepherd's love is still To bask upon a sunny hill,

The herdsman roams the valeWith both their fancies I agree ; Be mine the swelling, scooping sea, That is both hill and dale!

XV.

I yearn for that brisk spray-I yearn To feel the wave from stem to stern Uplift the plunging keel.

That merry step we used to dance, On board the Aidant or the Chance,

The ocean toe and heel.'

XVI.

I long to feel the steady gale,

That fills the broad distended sail—

The seas on either hand!

My thought, like any hollow shell, Keeps mocking at my ear the swell

Of waves against the land.

XVII.

It is no fable—that old strain

Of syrens!-so the witching main

Is singing and I sigh!
My heart is all at once inclined
To seaward-and I seem to find
The waters in my eye!

XVIII.

Methinks I see the shining beach;
The merry waves, each after each,
Rebounding o'er the flints;—

I spy the grim preventive spy!
The jolly boatmen standing nigh!

The maids in morning chintz!

XIX.

And there they float-the sailing craft! The sail is up-the wind abaft

The ballast trim and neat. Alas! 'tis all a dream-a lie! A printer's imp is standing by, To haul my mizen sheet!

XX.

My tiller dwindles to a pen—
My craft is that of bookish men-

My sale-let Longman tell!

Adieu, the wave! the wind! the spray! Men-maidens-chintzes-fade away! Tom Woodgate, fare thee well!

THE BRITISH SAILOR'S SONG.

BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

I.

AWAY with bayonet and with lance,
With corslet, casque and sword;
Our island king no war-horse needs,
For on the sea he's lord.

His throne's the war-ship's lofty deck,
His sceptre is the mast;

His kingdom is the rolling wave,

His servant is the blast.

His anchor's up, fair Freedom's flag

Proud to the mast he nails;

Tyrants and conquerors bow your heads,

For there your terror sails.

II.

I saw fierce Prussia's chargers stand,
Her children's sharp swords out;—
Proud Austria's bright spurs streaming red,
When rose the closing shout.

But soon the steeds rushed masterless,

By tower and town and wood; For lordly France her fiery youth

Poured o'er them like a flood. Go, hew the gold spurs from your heels, And let your steeds run free; Then come to our unconquered decks,

And learn to reign at sea.

III.

Behold yon black and battered hulk
That slumbers on the tide,

There is no sound from stem to stern,
For peace has plucked her pride.
The masts are down, the cannon mute,
She shews nor sheet nor sail;

Nor starts forth with the seaward breeze,
Nor answers shout nor hail.

Her merry men with all their mirth,

Have sought some other shore; And she, with all her glory on,

Shall rule the sea no more.

IV.

So landsmen speak.-Lo! her top-masts

Are quivering in the sky;

Her sails are spread, her anchor's raised,

There sweeps she gallant by.