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Great Cincinnatus at his plough
With brighter lustre shone,
Though seated on a throne,
Ambition ever knows,
Of study and repose.
Keep me, ye powers divine;
DEAR IS MY LITTLE NATIVE VALE. Dear is my little native vale,
The ring-dove builds and warbles there;
To ev'ry passing villager.
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
With my loud lute's romantic sound;
The ballet danc'd in twilight glade;
Sung in the silent greenwood shade.
These simple joys that never fail,
List, ye landsmen, all to me!
Sing the dangers of the sea ;
When the distant whirlwinds rise,
Where the seas contend with skies.
Hark! the boatswain hoarsely bawling,
By topsail sheets and haulyards stand! Down top-gallants quick be hauling,
Down your stay-sails, hand, boys, hand!
The topsail sheets now let go;
Up your topsails nimbly clew,
Now all you'on down beds sporting,
Fondly lock'd in beauty's arms; Fresh enjoyments wanton courting,
Safe from all but love's alarms; Round us roars the tempest louder,
Think what fear our minds enthrals; Harder yet, it yet blows harder,
Now again the boatswain calls!
The top-sail yards point to the wind, boys,
See all clear to reef each course;
Though the weather should be worse.
Reef the mizen, see all clear; Hands up, each preventure-brace set,
Man the fore-yard, cheer, lads, cheer!
Peal on peal contending clash,
In our eyes blue lightnings flash;
All above us one black sky; Different deaths at once surround us :
Hark! what means that dreadful cry? The foremast's gone, cries ev'ry tongue out,
O'er the lee, twelve feet 'bove deck; A leak beneath the chest-tree's sprung out,
Call all hands to clear the wreck. Quick the lanyards cut to pieces;
Come, my hearts, be stout and bold; Plumb the well—the leak increases,
Four feet water in the hold.
While o'er the ship wild waves are beating,
We for wives or children mourn;
Alas! to them there's no return!
Both chain-pumps are chok'd below : Heaven have mercy here upon us !
For only that can save us now.
O'er the lee-beam is the land, boys,
Let the guns o'erboard be thrown;
See ! our mizen-mast is gone!
We've lighten'd her a foot or more;
She riglits, she rights, boys, we're off shore.' Now once more on joys we're thinking,
Since kind heaven has sav'd our lives! Come, the can, boys! let's be drinking
To our sweethearts and our wives; Fill it up, about ship wheel it,
Close to our lips a brimroer join : Where's the tempest now, who feels it? None- the danger's drown'd in wine.
G. A. Stevens.
THE SOFT FLOWING AVON.
Thou soft flowing Avon, by thy silver stream
would dream, The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head.
The love-stricken maiden, the soft-sighing swain, Here rove without danger, and sigh without pain: The sweet bud of beauty no blight shall here dread, For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head.
Here youth shall be fam'd for their love and their
truth, And cheerful old age feel the spirit of youth ; For the raptures of fancy here poets shall tread, For hallow'd the turf is that pillow'd his head.
Flow on, silver Avon, in song ever flow!
SHAKSPEARE'S MULBERRY-TREE. Behold this fair goblet! 'twas carv'd from the tree, Which, O my sweet Shakspeare, was planted by
Bend to thee,
Who planted thee,
Ye trees of the forest, so rampant and high, Who spread round your branches, whose heads
sweep the sky; Ye curious exotics, whom taste has brought here To root out the natives at prices so dear;
Al shall yield to the mulberry-tree, &c.