Nor doth the watchful sailor stand

Alert to strike, harpoon in hand. Upon the deck assembled, old and young, Bareheaded all in reverence, see them there; Behold where, hoisted half-mast high, The English flag hangs mournfully; And hark! what solemn sounds are these Heard in the silence of the seas?

"Man that is born of woman, short his time,
And full of woe! he springeth like a flower,
Or like the grass, that, green at morning prime,
Is cut and withereth ere the evening hour;
Never doth he continue in one stay,
But like a shadow doth he pass away."
It was that awful strain, which saith
How in the midst of life we are in death:
"Yet not for ever, O Lord God most High!
Saviour! yet not for ever shall we die!"

Ne'er from a voice more eloquent did prayer
Arise, with fervent piety sincere.
To every heart, of all the listening crew,
It made its way, and drew

Even from the hardy seaman's eyes a tear.
"God," he pursued, "hath taken to himself
The soul of our departed Sister dear;
We then commit her body to the deep; "
He paused, and, at the word,
The coffin's plunge was heard.

A female voice of anguish then brake forth
With sobs convulsive of a heart opprest.
It was a daughter's agonizing cry:
But soon hath she represt
The fit of passionate grief,
And listening patiently,

In that religious effort gain'd relief.
Beside the grey-hair'd Captain doth she stand:
One arm is link'd in his; the other hand
Hid with the handkerchief her face, and prest
Her eyes, whence burning tears continuous flow.
Down hung her head upon her breast,
And thus the Maiden stood in silent woe.

Again was heard the Preacher's earnest voice: It bade the righteous in their faith rejoice, Their sure and certain hope in Christ; for blest In Him are they, who from their labours rest. It rose into a high thanksgiving strain, And praised the Lord, who from a world of pain Had now been pleased to set his servant free; Hasten thy kingdom, Lord, that all may rest in Thee!

In manhood's fairest prime was he who pray'd,
Even in the flower and beauty of his youth.
These holy words and fervent tones portray'd
The feelings of his inmost soul sincere ;

For scarce two months had fill'd their short career
Since from the grave of her who gave him birth
That sound had struck upon his ear;
When to the doleful words of "Earth to Earth"
Its dead response the senseless coffin gave: -
Oh! who can e'er forget that echo of the grave.

Now in the grace of God dismiss'd, They separate as they may,

To narrow limits of the ship confined: Nor did the impression lightly pass away, Even from the unreflecting sailor's mind. They pitied that sweet Maiden, there bereft, Alone on shipboard among strangers left. They spake of that young Preacher, day by day How while the fever held its fatal course, He minister'd at the patient sufferer's side, Holding of faith and hope his high discourse; And how, when all had join'd in humble prayer, She solemnly confided to his care,

Till to her Father's hands she could be given, Her child forlorn, - and blest him ere she died. They call'd to mind, how peaceful, how serene, Like one who seem'd already half in Heaven, After that act she yielded up her breath; And sure they wish'd their end like her's, And for a comforter like him in death.

II.

THE VOYAGE.

THE maiden on her narrow bed To needful solitude hath fled; He who perform'd the funeral prayer Leans o'er the vessel's head, and there Contemplating the sea and sky, He muses of eternity. The Captain paces to and fro The deck with steady step and slow, And at his side a passenger, Conversing as they go.

Their talk was of that Maid forlorn,

ween,

The mournful service of the morn, And the young man, whose voice of heartfelt faith Breathed hope and comfort o'er the bed of death. "Captain," quoth Randolph, "you have borne, Ere this, I ween, to Boston's shore, Saints by the dozen, and the score: But if he preach as he can pray, The Boston men will bless the day On which you brought this treasure o'er: A youth like him they well may call A Son of thunder, or a second Paul."

Thereat the Captain smiled, and said, "Oh hang the broad face and round head, Hard as iron, and heavy as lead! I have whistled for a wind ere now, And thought it cheap to crack a sail, If it sent the canting breed below. Jonah was three days in the whale, But I have had fellows here, I trow, With lungs of brazen power, Who would not fail to preach a whale Dead sick in half an hour. One Sunday, when on the Banks we lay, These Roundheads, think ye, what did they? Because, they said, 't was the Sabbath day, And hallow'd by the Lord, They took the fish, which their servants caught, And threw them overboard.

Newman is made of different clay; He walks in his own quiet way: And yet beneath that sober mien Gleams of a spirit may be seen, Which show what temper lies supprest Within his meek and unambitious breast: He seemeth surely one of gentle seed, Whose sires for many an age were wont to lead In courts and councils, and in camps to bleed."

Randolph replied, "He rules his tongue too well Ever of those from whom he sprung to tell : Whatever rank they once possess'd In camps and councils, is, I ween, suppress'd In prudent silence. Little love that pair Could to the royal Martyr bear, Be sure, who named their offspring Oliver. You have mark'd that volume, over which he seems To pore and meditate, like one who dreams, Pondering upon the page with thought intense, That nought, which passes round him, can from thence

His fix'd attention move:

He carries it about his person still, Nor lays it from him for a moment's time. At my request, one day, with no good will, He lent it me: what, think ye, did it prove? A rigmarole of verses without rhyme, About the apple, and the cause of sin, By the blind old traitor Milton! and within, Upon the cover, he had written thus, As if some saintly relic it had been, Which the fond owner gloried in possessing: Given me by my most venerable friend, The author, with his blessing!""

Sits the wind there!

CAPTAIN.

And it was worth the special care of Heaven;
Else had the hangman and the insensate axe
Cut off this toil divine." With that his eyes
Flash'd, and a warmer feeling flush'd his cheek:
"Time will bring down the Pyramids," he cried,
"Eldest of human works, and wear away

The dreadful Alps, coeval with himself:
But while yon sun shall hold his place assign'd,
This ocean ebb and flow, and the round earth,
Obedient to the Almighty Mover, fill

Her silent revolutions, Milton's mind
Shall dwell with us, an influence and a power;
And this great monument, which he hath built,
Outliving Empires, Pyramids, and Alps,
Endure, the lasting wonder of mankind."

I fear, by birth and breeding: I perceive it With sorrow, seeing on how fair a stock The unlucky graft is set.

CAPTAIN.

Why then, alas

They have hid among them the two regicides,
Shifting from den to cover, as we found

Where the scent lay. But earth them as they will,
I shall unkennel them, and from their holes
Drag them to light and justice.

For that poor Annabel! if she must have
This farther cause to rue our baneful factions.
The wretched strife already hath entail'd
Upon her luckless family the loss

Of fair possessions, friends, and native land!
And now a chance hath offer'd, which to her,
I trow, might largely make amends for all:
It would be hard indeed, when all things seem
To square so well-youth, opportunity,
Their fortunes one, the natural dower of each
So equal, and so bountifully given,
A dying Mother's blessing to crown all-
It would be hard indeed, should loyalty
Forbid the banns.

CAPTAIN.

There hath been

Much wholesome sickness thrown away, Sir Randolph,
On your strong stomach ! Two sea voyages
Have not sufficed to clear the bile wherewith
You left New England!

RANDOLPH.

Nay, it rises in me

As I draw near their shores.

RANDOLPH.

I know her Father's temper,

True as his own Toledo to the cause

Wherein they both were tried, Nor will neglect,
Ingratitude of courts, and banishment,
(For a grant in the American wilderness
Only calls exile by a fairer name,)
Subdue his high-wrought virtue. Satisfied
At last, by years of patient, painful proof,
That loyalty must find in its own proud sense
Its own reward, that pride he will bequeath
His children as their best inheritance,
A single heir-loom rescued from the wreck,
And worth whate'er was lost.

CAPTAIN.

'Tis well the Youth Thinks less of earth than Heaven, and hath his heart More with the Angels than on human love: But if such thoughts and hopes have enter'd it, As would some forty years ago have found Quick entrance, and warm welcome too, in mine, His ugly baptism may mar all, and make him Breathe maledictions on his Godfathers, Though old Nol himself were one.

RANDOLPH.

Howbeit 'twill win him
Worship and friends in the city of the Saints;
And, to the ears of sober Boston men,
Oliver will be a name more savoury
Than Tribulation, or Stand-fast-in-the-Lord,
Increase or Nathan, Gershom, Ichabod,
Praise-God, or any of the Barebones breed.
They rise upon the Oak-holyday with faces
A full inch longer than they took to bed:
Experienced nurses feed their babes that day
By spoon, because the mother's milk is sour;
And when they mourn upon the Martyrdom,
"Tis for the expiation, not the crime.

Oh they love dearly one of the precious seed!
Tyburn, since Sixty, in their secret hearts
Holds place of Calvary. For Saints and Martyrs,
None like their own Hugh Peters, and the heads
On the Hall your only relics! Fifteen years

CAPTAIN.

Why then, look shortly For a sharp fit; for, if the sky tell true, Anon we shall have wind, and to our wish.

So spake the Captain, for his eye,
Versed in all signs and weathers,
Discern'd faint traces in the eastern sky,

Such as a lion's paw might leave
Upon the desart, when the sands are dry.

The dog-vane now blows out with its light feathers;
And lo! the Ship, which like a log hath lain,
Heavily rolling on the long slow swell,
Stirs with her proper impulse now, and gathers
A power like life beneath the helmsman's will.
Her head lies right; the rising breeze
Astern comes rippling o'er the seas;
A tramp of feet! a sound of busy voices!
The cordage rattles, and the topsails fill;
All hands are active, every heart rejoices.

Blest with fair seas, and favourable skies,
Right for her promised land
The gallant vessel flies;
Far, far behind her now
The foamy furrow lies;
Like dust around her prow
The ocean spray is driven.

O thou fair creature of the human hand!
Thou, who wert palsied late,
When the dead calm lay heavy on the deep,
Again hast thou received the breath of Heaven,
And, waking from thy sleep,

As strength again to those broad wings is given,
Thou puttest forth thy beauty and thy state!
Hold on with happy winds thy prosperous way,
And may no storm that goodly pride abate,
Nor baffling airs thy destined course delay,
Nor the sea-rover seize thee for his prey;
But minist'ring Angels wait
To watch for thee, against all ill event,
From man, or from the reckless element.
Thou hast a richer freight
Than ever vessel bore from Ophir old,
Or spicey India sent,

Or Lisbon welcomed to her joyful quay From her Brazilian land of gems and gold: Thou carriest pious hope, and pure desires,

'Twas a land

But not green fields or pastures. Of pines and sand; Dark pines, that from the loose and sparkling soil Rose in their strength aspiring: far and wide They sent their searching roots on every side, And thus, by depth and long extension, found Firm hold and grasp within that treacherous ground: So had they risen and flourish'd; till the earth, Unstable as its neighbouring ocean there, Like an unnatural mother, heap'd around Their trunks its wavy furrows white and high; And stifled thus the living things it bare. Half buried thus they stand,

Their summits sere and dry,

Marking, like monuments, the funeral mound; As when the masts of some tall vessel show Where, on the fatal shoals, a wreck lies whelm'd below.

Such was the ungenial earth; nor was the air
Fresh and delightful there:

A noisome taint upon the breath it bore;
For they who dwelt upon that sandy shore,
Of meadows or of gardens took no care;
They sow'd not, neither did they reap:
The ocean was their field, their flocks and herds
The myriad-moving armies of the deep;
The whale their mighty chase, whose bones bestrew'd
The sandy margin of that ample bay,
And all about, in many a loathly heap,
The offal and the reeking refuse lay,
Left there for dogs obscene and carrion birds a prey.

Oliver, as they approach'd, said thoughtfully; "It was within this bay

That they, into the wilderness who bore The seeds of English faith and liberty, First set their feet upon the shore. Here they put in, escaping from the rage Of tempests, and by treacherous pilotage Led, as it seem'd to fallible men, astray: But God was with them; and the Providence Which errs not, had design'd his people's way."

"A blessed day for England had it been," Randolph exclaim'd, "had Providence thought good, If the whole stern round-headed brotherhood Had follow'd, man and woman great and small; New England might have prosper'd with the brood, Or seas and sharks been welcome to them all."

"Alas, how many a broken family Hath felt that bitter wish!" the Youth replied; And, as he spake, he breathed a silent sigh. "The wounded heart is prone to entertain Presumptuous thoughts and feelings, which arraign The appointed course of things. But what are we, Short-sighted creatures of an hour, That we should judge? In part alone we see, And this but dimly. He, who ordereth all, Beholdeth all, at once, and to the end: Upon His wisdom and His power, His mercy and His boundless love, we rest; And resting thus in humble faith, we know, Whether the present be for weal or woe, For us whatever is must needs be best."

Thus, while he spake, the boat had reach'd the land;
And, grating gently, rested on the sand.
They step ashore; the dwellers gather nigh:
"Whence comes the vessel? whither is she bound?"
Then for Old England's welfare they inquire; —
Eager alike for question and reply,
With open lips and ears attending round; -
What news of war, and plague, and plots, and fire?
Till satisfied of these, with cheerful care
The board and bowl they hasten to prepare ;
Each active in his way,

Glad of some lawful business, that may break
The tedium of an idle Sabbath-day.

But, from the stir of that loquacious crew, Oliver meantime apart from all withdrew. Beyond the bare and sapless pines, which stood Half-overwhelm'd with sand,

'He pass'd, and entering in the wood, Indulged his burthen'd heart in solitude. "Thou Earth! receive me, from my native land An unoffending exile! Hear my claim ! In search of wealth I have not sought thy shore, Nor covetous of fame,

Nor treading in the ambitious steps of power; But hiding from the world a hapless name, And sacrificing all

She led him hastily toward a shed,
Where, fetter'd to the door-post, on the ground
An Indian woman sate. Her hands were bound,
Her shoulders and her back were waled and scored
With recent stripes. A boy stood by,
Some seven years old, who with a piteous eye
Beheld his suffering mother, and deplored
Her injuries with a cry,

Deep, but not loud,—an utterance that express'd
The mingled feelings swelling in his breast,-
Instinctive love intense, the burning sense
Of wrong, intolerable grief of heart,
And rage, to think his arm could not fulfil
The pious vengeance of his passionate will.
His sister by the door

Lay basking in the sun too young was she
To feel the burthen of their misery;
Reckless of all that pass'd, her little hand
Play'd idly with the soft and glittering sand.

At this abhorred sight, Had there been place for aught But pity, half-relieved by indignation,