Health, too, and Strength, tugged at the oar,
Mirth mocked the passing billows' roar,
And Joy, with goblet running o'er,
Drank draughts of deep delight;
And Judgment at the helm they set,
But Judgment was a child as yet,
And, lack-a-day! was all unfit

To guide the boat aright:

Bubbles did half their thoughts employ,
Hope she believed-she played with Joy,
And Fancy bribed her with a toy,
To steer which way he chose:
But still they were a merry crew,
And laughed at dangers as untrue,
Till the dim sky tempestuous grew,
And sobbing south winds rose.

Then Prudence told them all she feared,
And Youth awhile his messmates cheered,
Until at length he disappeared,

Though none knew how he went.
Joy hung his head, and Mirth grew dull,
Health faltered, Strength refused to pull,
And Memory, with her soft eyes full,
Backward her glance still bent-

To where, upon the distant sea,
Bursting the storm's dark canopy,
Light from a sun none now could see,

Still touched the whirling wave.
And though Hope, gazing from the bow,
Turns oft,--she sees the shore,—to vow,
Judgment, grown older now I trow,
Is silent, stern, and grave.

And though she steers with better skill,
And makes her fellows do her will,
Fear says the storm is rising still

And day is almost spent.

Oh! that I could as merry be,
As when I set out this world to see,
Like a boat filled with good companie,

On some gay voyage sent.

AUTHOR OF RICHELIEU.

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

COME, see the Dolphin's Anchor forged; 'tis a white heat now; The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow

The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound; And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare; Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below,

And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe; It rises, roars, rends all outright-O Vulcan, what a glow! 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright; the high sun shines not so!

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show; The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe; As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow

Sinks on the anvil-all about the faces fiery grow

"Hurrah," they shout, "leap out-leap out;" bang, bang, the sledges go;

Hurrah; the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low;
A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow;
The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders

strow

The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains

flow:

And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "Ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!
Let's forge a goodly Anchor, a bower, thick and broad;
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode,
And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road;
The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured
From stem to stern, sea after sea, the mainmast by the board;
The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the

chains,

But courage still brave mariners, the bower yet remains,

And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch skyhigh,

Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing-here

am I!"

Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time,
Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime!
But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burden be,
The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal craftsmen we;
Strike, in strike in, the sparks begin to dull their rustling red!
Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be

sped;

Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array,
For a hammook at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;
Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here,
For the Yeo-heave-o, and the Heave-away, and the sighing
seaman's cheer;

When weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and

home,

And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.
In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last,
A shapely one he is and strong, as e'er from cat was cast.

A trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!

O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou? The hoary monster's palaces! methinks what joy 'twere now To go plump plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging

tails!

Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn,
And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn;
To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn,
And for the ghastly grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn;
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian
isles

He lies, a lubber anchorage, for sudden shallowed miles;
Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls,
Meanwhile to swing, a buffeting the far astonished shoals
Of his back-browsing ocean calves; or haply in a cove,
Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love,
To find the long-haired mermaidens; or, hard by icy lands,
To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands.

O broad-armed Fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine?

The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line;

And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,
Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play;
But, shamer of our little sports! forgive the name I gave,
A fisher's joy is to destroy,-thine office is to save.

O, lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band,

Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend,

With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient friend

Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee,

Thine iron side would swell with pride, thou❜dst leap within the sea!

Give honour to their memories who left the pleasant strand, To shed their blood so freely for the love of FatherlandWho left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard

grave

So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave

Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honour him for their memory, whose bones he goes among! BLACKWOOD'S Magazine.

THE SONG OF THE BREEZE.

I'VE swept o'er the mountain, the forest, and fell,
I've played on the rock where the wild chamois dwell;
I have tracked the desert so dreary and rude,
Through the pathless depths of its solitude;"
Through the ocean-caves of the stormy sea,
My spirit has wandered at midnight free;
I have slept in the lily's fragrant bell,

I have moaned in the ear through the rosy shell;
I have roamed alone by the gurgling stream,
I have danced at eve with the pale moonbeam;
I have kissed the rose in its blushing pride,
Till my breath the dew from its lips has dried;
I have stolen away, on my silken wing,
The violets' scent in the early spring;

I have hung over groves where the citron grows,
And the clustering bloom of the orange
blows;
I have sped the dove on its errand home,
O'er mountain and river, and sun-gilt dome;

I have hushed the babe in its cradled rest,
With my song, to sleep on its mother's breast;
I have chased the clouds in their dark career,
Till they hung on my wings in their shapes of fear;
I have rent the oak from its forest-bed,

And the flaming brand of the fire-king sped;
I have rushed with the fierce tornado forth,
On the tempest's wing from the stormy north;
I have lashed the waves till they rose in pride,
And the mariner's skill in their wrath defied;
I have borne the mandate of fate and doom,
And swept the wretch to his watery tomb;
I have shrieked the wail of the murdered dead,
Till the guilty spirit hath shrunk with dread;
I have hymned my dirge o'er the silent grave,
And bade the cypress more darkly wave:
There is not a spot upon land or sea,

Where thou may'st not, enthusiast, wander with me.
ELEANOR DICKENSON.

NOTHING.

MOST writers like on something to dilate,

And some on anything would spend their time; But everything is now in such a state

That "nothing" best fits my humble chime.

Hail! then, the subject; and all hail! the bard
"Who can write well on nothing!"-Few beside
Would claim this meed!-but yet with due regard
To others' rights, my chaplet I'll divide!

What art thou, Nothing?-Nothing but a name!
Yet so connected with all earthly ties,
That Glory, Reputation, Pleasure, Fame,

All end in thee-from whom they took their rise!

What's Friendship? Nothing!-Love? "an emptier sound!" Honour?-Wealth?-Splendour?-Dignity?—and Pride?

I asked the tombs-(with solemn sculptures crowned)‘Nothing!”—a hollow moan from each replied.

Yet much depends on Nothing!-Nothing known,
Nothing is wanted; and the vacant breast,
Where Ignorance erects his leaden throne,
Asks Nothing to secure his placid rest!