There are spirits of the deep,
Who, when the warrant's given,
Rise raging from their sleep,
On rock, or mountain steep,
Or, 'mid thunder-clouds, that keep

The wrath of Heaven.

High the eddying mists are whirl'd,
As they rear their giant forms;
See! their tempest flag's unfurľ’d,—
Fierce they sweep the prostrate world,
And the withering lightning's hurl'd

Through the storms.

O er Swilly's rocks they soar,
Commission'd watch to keep;
Down, down, with thundering roar,
The exulting demons pour.-

The Saldanah floats no more

O'er the deep!

The dread behest is past!

All is silent as the grave;

One shriek was first and last

Scarce a death-sob drunk the blast,

As sank her towering mast

Beneath the wave.

"Britannia rules the waves"-
Oh, vain and impious boast!
Go mark, presumptuous slaves,
Where He, who sinks or saves,

Scars the sands with countless graves
Round your coast.

The Chance Ship.

387

Couldst Thou but Know.

COUL

BY LADY CAROLINE LAMB.

OULDST thou but know what 'tis to weep--
To weep unpitied and alone,

The livelong night, whilst others sleep,
Silent and mournful watch to keep,-

Thou wouldst not do what I have done.

Couldst thou but know what 'tis to smile,
To smile when scorn'd by every one ;
To hide, by many an artful wile,

A heart that knows more grief than guile,—
Thou wouldst not do what I have done.

And oh! if thou couldst think how drear,

When friends are changed, and health is gone, The world would to thine eyes appear,

If thou, like me, to none wert dear,

Thou wouldst not do what I have done.

The Chance Ship.

BY PROFESSOR WILSON.

How beautiful upon the wave

The vessel sails, that comes to save!

Fitting it was that first she shone
Before the wandering eyes of one
So beautiful as thou.

See how before the wind she goes,

Scattering the waves like melting snows!
Her course with glory fills

The sea for many a league! Descending,
She stoopeth now into the vale,

Now, as more freshly blows the gale,

She mounts in triumph o'er the watery hills.
Oh! whither is she tending?

She holds in sight yon shelter'd bay;
As for her crew, how bless'd are they.
See! how she veers around!

Back whirl the waves with louder sound;

And now her prow points to the land: For the ship, at her glad lord's command, Doth well her helm obey.

They cast their eyes around the isles:

But what a change is there!

For ever fled that lonely smile

That lay on earth and air,

That made its haunts so still and holy,

Almost for bliss too melancholy
For life too wildly fair.

Gone-gone is all its loneliness,

And with it much of loveliness.
Into each deep glen's dark recess,
The day-shine pours like rain,
So strong and sudden is the light
Reflected from that wonder bright,
Now tilting o'er the main.

Soon as the thundering cannon spoke,

The voice of the evening gun,

The spell of the enchantment broke,

Like dew beneath the sun.

Soon shall they hear the unwonted cheers Of these delighted mariners,

To a Child.

And the loud sounds of the oar,
As bending back away they pull,
With measured pause, most beautiful,
Approaching to the shore.

For her yards are bare of man and sail,
Nor moves the giant to the gale;
But, on the ocean's breast,

With storm-proof cables, stretching far,
There lies the stately ship of war-

And glad is she of rest.

389

WH

To a Child.

BY JOANNA BAILLIE.

HOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,
And curly pate, and merry eye,

And arm and shoulders round and sleek,
And soft and fair, thou urchin sly?

What boots it who, with sweet caresses,
First call'd thee his, or squire or hind?

For thou in every wight that passes
Dost now a friendly playmate find!

Thy downcast glances, grave but cunning,
As fringed eyelids rise and fall,

Thy shyness, swiftly from me running,
'Tis infantine coquetry all!

But far afield thou hast not flown,

With mocks and threats half-lisp'd, half-spoken,

I feel thee pulling at my gown,

Of right good-will thy simple token!

And thou must laugh and wrestle too,
A mimic warfare with me waging,
To make, as wily lovers do,

Thy after kindness more engaging!

The wilding rose, sweet as thyself,

And new-cropp'd daisies are thy treasure; I'd gladly part with worldly pelf,

To taste again thy youthful pleasure!

But yet, for all thy merry look,

Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook,

The weary spell or hornbook thumbing.

Well; let it be! through weal and woe,
Thou knowest not now thy future range;
Life is a motley shifting show,

And thou a thing of hope and change.

The Dying Exile.

BY EDMUND READE.

FAREWELL a long farewell to thee,

My own, my native land!

Now would to God that I were free

Upon thy rugged strand!