No more, no more

The worldly shore

Upbraids me with its loud uproar:

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies

Under the walls of Paradise!

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Tacking Ship Off Shore*

The weather-leech of the topsail shivers,
The bowlines strain, and the lee-shrouds
slacken,

The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers,
And the waves with the coming squall-cloud
blacken.

Open one point on the weather-bow,

Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head.
There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow,
And the pilot watches the heaving lead.

I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye
To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze,
Till the muttered order of " Full and by!"
Is suddenly changed for " Full for stays!"
The ship bends lower before the breeze,

As her broadside fair to the blast she lays; *By courtesy of The Churchman.

The

World of

Waters

The

And she swifter springs to the rising seas, World of As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays!"

Waters

It is silence all, as each in his place,

With the gathered coil in his hardened hands, By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace,

Waiting the watchword impatient stands.

And the light on Fire Island Head draws near,
As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout
From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear,
With the welcome call of "Ready! About!"

No time to spare! It is touch and go;

And the captain growls, "Down helm! hard down!"

As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw,
While heaven grows black with the storm-
cloud's frown.

High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray,
As we meet the shock of the plunging sea;
And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay,
As I answer, "Ay, ay, sir! Ha-a-rd a-lee!”
With the swerving leap of a startled steed
The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind,

The dangerous shoals on the lee recede,

And the headland white we have left behind.

The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse,

And belly and tug at the groaning cleats;

And spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps;

The

And thunders the order, " Tacks and sheets!" World of

'Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the

crew,

Hisses the rain of the rushing squall:

The sails are aback from clew to clew,

And now is the moment for "Mainsail, haul!"

And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy,
By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung:
She holds her way, and I look with joy
For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks
flung.

"Let go, and haul!" "Tis the last command,
And the head-sails fill to the blast once more:
Astern and to leeward lies the land,

With its breakers white on the shingly shore.

What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall?
I steady the helm for the open sea;
The first mate clamors, "Belay, there, all!”
And the captain's breath once more comes free.

And so off shore let the good ship fly;
Little care I how the gusts may blow,

In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry.

Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below.

WALTER MITCHELL.

Waters

The

World of

Waters

Windlass Song

Heave at the windlass!-Heave O, cheerly, men!

Heave all at once, with a will!

The tide quickly making,

Our cordage a-creaking,
The water has put on a frill,

Heave O!

Fare you well, sweethearts!-Heave O, cheerly,

men!

Fare you well, frolic and sport!

The good ship all ready,

Each dog-vane is steady,

The wind blowing dead out of port,
Heave O!

Once in blue water-Heave O, cheerly, men!
Blow it from north or from south;
She'll stand to it tightly,

And curtsey politely,

And carry a bone in her mouth,

Heave O!

Short cruise or long cruise-Heave O, cheerly,

men!

Jolly Jack Tar thinks it one.

No latitude dreads he

Of White, Black, or Red Sea,
Great icebergs, or tropical sun,

Heave O!

One other turn, and Heave O, cheerly, men!
Heave, and good-bye to the shore!
Our money, how went it?

We shared it and spent it;

Next year we'll come back with some more,
Heave O!

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

The Coral Grove

Deep in the wave is a coral grove,
Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove;
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue
That never are wet with falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine,
Far down in the green and glassy brine.

The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift;
And the pearl-shell spangle the flinty snow;
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift

Their boughs where the tides and billows flow.
The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there;

And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air.

There, with its waving blade of green,
The sea-flag streams through the silent water;