CHARLES SPRAGUE.

HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL.

169

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Hear it sweep, clear and deep, ever along:
"Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we

How life-like, through the mist of years,
Each well-remembered face appears!
We see them, as in times long past;
From each to each kind looks are cast;
We hear their words, their smiles behold;
They 're round us, as they were of old.
We are all here.

come;

Where the free dare to be,- this is our home!"

Not theirs the glory-wreath, torn by the
blast;
Heavenward their holy steps, heavenward
they past.

Green be their mossy graves! ours be
their fame,

While their song peals along ever the

same:

"Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we

And e'en the form we loved to see,
We canna lang, dear though it be,
Preserve it as a token.

But Mary had a gentle heart,
Heaven did as gently free her;
Yet lang afore she reached that part,
Dear sir, it wad ha'e made ye start
Had ye been there to see her.

And when she couldna stray out by,
The wee wild flowers to gather,
She oft her household plays wad try,
To hide her illness frae our eye,
Lest she should grieve us farther.

But ilka thing we said or did
Aye pleased the sweet wee creature ;
Indeed, ye wad ha'e thought she had
A something in her made her glad
Ayont the course o' nature.

the ruddy, lurid row

Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band,
like men before the foe;

Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair, As, quivering through his fleece of flame,
And growing meek and meeker,
Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair,
She wore a little angel's air,

the sailing monster slow
Sinks on the anvil, - all about the faces
fiery grow,

Ere angels cam' to seek her.

"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 strew

The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow;

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

It rises, roars, rends all outright,
Vulcan, what a glow!

'Tis blinding white, 't is blasting bright;
the high sun shines not so!

The windlass strains the tackle-chains, the black mound heaves below; And, red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe:

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful show, —

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth,

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 low, I bode,

And I see the good ship riding all in a perilous road;

The low reef roaring on her lea; 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 sky-high,
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!

FRANCIS MAHONY (FATHER PROUT).

171

Strike in, strike in, the sparks begin to | O broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose dull their rustling red; sports can equal thine? Our hammers ring with sharper din, our Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that work will soon be sped: tugs thy cable line;

The

And night by night 't is thy delight, thy glory day by day,

Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array

For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;

Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play;

But,

shamer of our little sports! forgive the name I gave, fisher's joy is to destroy, thine office is

A

to save.

Our anchor soon must change the lay of
merry craftsmen here,
For the yeo-heave-ho, and the heave-away,
and the sighing seamen'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.

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 waves that
round about thee bend,

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

O, 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 honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand

To shed their blood so freely for the love of fatherland,

Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave

So freely for a restless bed amid the tossing wave;

O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung,

Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among!

FRANCIS MAHONY (FATHER
PROUT).

[1805-1865.]

THE BELLS OF SHANDON.

WITH deep affection
And recollection,
I often think of
The Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would
In days of childhood
Fling round my cradle
Their magic spells.
On this I ponder,
Where'er I wander,