It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp

The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace; It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,

And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. The startled waves leap over it; the storm

Smites it with all the scourges of the rain, And steadily against its solid form

Press the great shoulders of the hurricane.

“ Sail on!" it says, “ sail on, ye stately ships !

And with your floating bridge the ocean span ; Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse, Be yours to bring man nearer unto man !

Longfellow.

THE STORMY PETREL. A THOUSAND miles from land are we Tossing about on the roaring sea ; From billow to bounding billow cast, Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast: The sails are scatter'd about like weeds, The strong masts shake like quivering reeds; The mighty cables and iron chains, The huil, which all earthly strength disdains, They strain and they crack; and hearts of stone, Their natural hard, proud strength disown.

Up and down! up and down! From the base of the wave to the billow's crown, Amidst the flashing and feathery foam, The stormy petrel finds a home ; A home,-if such a place can be For her who lives on the wide wide sea, On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, And only seeking her rocky lair To warn her young, and teach them to spring At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing!

O'er the deep ! o'er the deep! Where the whale, and the shark, and the swordfish sleep! Outfiying the blast and the driving rain, The petrel telleth her tale in vain : For the mariner curseth the warning bird, Who bringeth him news of the storm unheard: Ah! thus does the prophet of good or ill Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still ; Yet, he never falters ;-80, petrel! spring Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing.

Barry Cornwall.

THE OLD ABBEY.
It is a sweet and hallow'd place

This ancient ruin'd pile,
Where flowers in Nature's untauglit graco
The shatter'd pillars interlace,

And midst desertion smile.
The aged trees spread far and wide

Their patriarchal shade;
But lonely is their sylvan pride,
With broken roofless walls beside,

That mock the verdant glade.
And Melancholy reigns supreme

Within those cloisters gray,
That, wreck'd, remain to wake a theme
For fancy and the poet's dream,

Of ages pass’d away,–
Of days when learning nourish'd there

The seeds of bounteous good ;
When men in penitential prayer
Sought refuge from the shoals of care

In this green solitude.

The monarch, trembling on his throne

For some unballow'd deed,
Came hither to these precincts lone,
The vaunt, the pride of greatness gone,

The pious monks to heed.
The knight, remorseful or from shame,

Would change for priestly cowl
The trophies of his hard-won fame,
And honours of a lofty name,

To save his sinful soul.
And grateful was its rest to those

Whose hearts were sorrow-riven;
For, midst the convent's calm repose
Their eve of life would sweetly close

In trustful hope of heaven.
And here the poor man found a friend

When crush'd by tyranny,
For sin would blush, and brows unbend
And vice would shrink, nor dare offend

The abbey's sanctity.
Then peace be to thee, ruin'd pile ;

No spoliating band
Sha!l linger where fair Nature's smilo
Protects its crumbling walls awhile,
To beautify the land.

Jones.

THE VALLEY.

CAARMING little valley,
Smiling all so gaily,

Like an angel's brow ;
Spreading out thy treasures,
Calling us to pleasures,

Innocent as thou.

Skies are bright above thee,
Peace and quiet love thee,

Tranquil little dell ;
In thy fragrant bowers
Twining wreaths of flowers,

Love and friendship dwell.
May our spirits daily
Be like thee, sweet valley,

Tranquil and serene ;
Emblem to us given,
Of the vales of heaven,

Ever bright and green.

TO DAFFODILS.
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see

You haste array so soon;
As yet, the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd its noon.

Stay, stay
Until the hasting day

Has run
But to the even-song;
And having pray'd together, tre

Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay as you,

We bave as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you or any thing.

We die,
As your hours do, and dry

Away,
Like to the summer's rain,
Or as the pearls of morning dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

Herrick.

BOOK III.

HOME.

ARE there who, always fond of changing,

Still in quest of pleasures roam P From scene to scene for ever ranging,

Unconscious of the sweets of Home? Oh! what a thousand tender pleasures,

To the wanderer quite unknown, Lurk in the winning sphere she measures,

And number the delights of Home. There the heart congenial meets you,

There affection's sunbeams play, Dear domestic duties greet you

In this spot where'er you stray. Tuned to love's delightful measure,

There you hear the soothing tone, And the rosy smile of pleasure

Lights a welcome to your Home. Free from vain or pert intrusion,

The swiftly circling minutes fly, And within this dear seclusion

Ambush'd joys and pleasures lie. Droops the heart with pain or anguish,

Do the spirits feel a gloom ?
Oh, how healing love's soft language,

How endearing then is Home!