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And if so fair, from vanity as free;

As firm in friendship, and as fond in love. Tell them, though 't is an awful thing to die

('T was even to thee,) yet, the dread path once trod, Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high,

And bids the pure in heart behold their God.

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But you know it can be angry,
And thunder from its rest,
When the stormy taunts of winter

Are flying at its breast;

And if you like to listen,

And draw your chairs around,
I'll tell you what it did one night,
When you were sleeping sound.

The merry boats of Brixham
Go out to search the seas,
A stanch and sturdy fleet are they,
Who love a swinging breeze;
And before the woods of Devon,
And the silver cliffs of Wales,
You may see when summer evenings fall,
The light upon their sails.

But when the year grows darker,
And gray winds hunt the foam,
They go back to little Brixham,
And ply their toils at home.
And thus it chanced one winter's day,
When a storm began to roar,
That all the men were out at sea,
And all the wives on shore.

Then as the wind grew fiercer,

The women's cheeks grew white, –

It was fiercer in the twilight,
And fiercest in the night.

The strong clouds set themselves like ice,
Without a star to melt;

The blackness of the darkness

Was something to be felt.

The storm, like an assassin,
Went on its secret way,

And struck a hundred boats adrift
To reel about the bay.

They meet, they crash,-God keep the men!

God give a moment's light! There is nothing but the tumult,

And the tempest and the night.

The men on shore were anxious, —
They grieved for what they knew:
What do you think the women did?
Love taught them what to do!
Outspoke a wife: "We've beds at home,
We'll burn them for a light!
Give us the men and the bare ground!
We want no more to-night."

They took the grandame's blanket,
Who shivered and bade them go;

They took the baby's pillow,

Who could not say them no;

And they heaped a great fire on the pier,
And knew not all the while

If they were heaping a bonfire,
Or only a funeral pile.

And, fed with precious food, the flame

Shone bravely on the black,

Till a cry rang through the people,"A boat is coming back!" Staggering dimly through the fog,

They see and then they doubt;

But, when the first prow strikes the pier,
Cannot you hear them shout?

Then all along the breadth of flame
Dark figures shrieked and ran,

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With, Child, here comes your father!"

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Or, Wife, is this your man?"

And faint feet touch the welcome shore,
And stay a little while;

And kisses drop from frozen lips,
Too tired to speak or smile.

So, one by one, they struggled in,
All that the sea would spare:
We will not reckon through our tears
The names that were not there;
But some went home without a bed,
When all the tale was told,

Who were too cold with sorrow
To know the night was cold.

And this is what the men must do,
Who work in wind and foam;
And this is what the women bear,
Who watch for them at home.

So when you see a Brixham boat
Go out to face the gales,
Think of the love that travels

Like light upon her sails.

M. B. S.

Brockley Coomb.

LINES

COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795.

ITH many a pause and oft-reverted eye

WITH

I climb the Coomb's ascent; sweet songsters near Warble in shade their wildwood melody;

Far off the unvarying cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock
That on green plots o'er precipices browse;
From the deep fissures of the naked rock

The yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark-green boughs
(Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest; - and now have gained the topmost site.
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets

My gaze! Proud towers, and cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadowed fields, and prospect-bounding sea!
Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O, were my Sara here!
Samuel Taylor Coleridge,

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