And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all

his ivory horn; To leave the subtle sword-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 Un

diné'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 breakers white, the giant

game to playBut shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name I

gaveA fisher's joy is to destroy, thine office is to save. O lodger in the sea-kings' halls, couldst thou but

understand Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band,

M

a

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 Father

land Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy

churchyard grave, So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing waveOr, though our anchor may not be all I have

fondly sung, Honour him for their memory whose bones he

goes among

DOOMSDAY.
THE TEMPEST. ACT IV. SCENE I.
Our revels now are ended : these our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air ;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve ;
And like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind! We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S NEST.

(Longfellow.)
Once the Emperor Charles of Spain,

With his swarthy grave commanders,
I forget in what campaign,
Long besieged, in mud and rain,

Some old frontier town of Flanders.
Up and down the dreary camp,

In great boots of Spanish leather, Striding with a measured tramp, These hidalgos, dull and damp,

Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather. Thus, as to and fro they went,

Over upland and through hollow, Giving their impatience vent, Perched upon the Emperor's tent,

In her nest they spied a swallow. Yes; it was a swallow's nest

Built of clay and hair of horses, Mane or tail or dragoon's crest, Found on hedge-rows, east or west,

After skirmish of the forces. Then an old hidalgo said,

As he twirled his grey mustachio, “Sure this swallow overhead Thinks the emperor's tent a shed,

And the emperor but a macho!"* Hearing his imperial name

Coupled with those words of malice,

Half in anger, half in shame,
Forth the great campaigner came

Slowly from his canvas palace.

“Let no hand the bird molest,"

Said he solemnly, "nor hurt her!" Adding then by way of jest, “Golondrina* is my guest,

'Tis the wife of some deserter.”

Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft,

Through the camp was spread the rumour, And the soldiers, as they quaffed Flemish beer at dinner, laughed

At the emperor's pleasant humour.

So unharmed and unafraid

Sat the swallow still and brooded,
Till the constant cannonade
Through the walls a breach had made,

And the siege was thus concluded.

Then the army, elsewhere bent,

Struck its tents, as if disbanding,
Only not the emperor's tent,
For he ordered ere he went,

Very curtly, “Leave it standing !”

So it stood there all alone,

Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, Till the brood was fledged and flown, Singing o'er those walls of stone

Which the cannonshot had shattered.

AN ODE.(Sir W. Fones.)
What constitutes a state ?
Not high-raised battlement or laboured mound,

Thick wall or moated gate;
Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned ;

Not bays and broad-armed ports,
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;

Not starred and spangled courts,
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride,

No; men, high-minded men,
With powers as far above dull brutes endued

In forest, brake, or den,
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude;

Men who their duties know,
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain,

Prevent the long-aimed blow,
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain:

These constitute a state,
And sovereign law, that state's collected will,

O'er thrones and globes elate
Sits empress crowning good, repressing ill.

Smit by her sacred frown,
The fiend Dissension like a vapour sinks,

And e'en the all-dazzling crown
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks,

Such was this heaven-loved isle,
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore !

No more shall Freedom smile ?
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ?

Since all must life resign,
Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave,

'Tis folly to decline,
And steal inglorious to the silent grave,