7. THE SINKING SHIP.

Her giant form

O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,
Majestically calm, would go

Mid the deep darkness white as snow!
But gentler now the small waves glide,
5 Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side.
So stately her bearing, so proud her array,
The main she will traverse for ever and aye.

Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast!

Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her last.

10 Five hundred souls, in one instant of dread

Are hurried o'er the deck,

And fast the miserable ship

Becomes a lifeless wreck.

Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock,

15 Her planks are torn asunder,

And down come her masts with a reeling shock,

And a hideous crash like thunder.

Her sails are draggled in the brine,

That gladdened late the skies;

20 And her pendant, that kissed the fair moonshine,

Down many a fathom lies.

Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues
Gleamed softly from below,

And flung a warm and sunny flush

25 O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow,
To the coral rocks are hurrying down,
To sleep amid colors as bright as their own.
Oh! many a dream was in the ship,

An hour before her death;

30 And sights of home with sighs disturbed
The sleeper's long-drawn breath.

Instead of the murmur of the sea,
The sailor heard the humming tree,
Alive through all its leaves,

35 The hum of the spreading sycamore

That grows before his cottage-door,
And the swallow's song in the eaves.
His arms enclosed a blooming boy,

Who listened with tears of sorrow and joy 40 To the dangers his father had passed;

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And his wife, by turns she wept and smiled,
As she looked on the father of her child
Returned to her heart at last.

-He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll,
45 And the rush of waters is in his soul.
Astounded the reeling deck he paces,
Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces ;-
The whole ship's crew are there.
Wailings around and over head,
50 Brave spirits stupified or dead,
And madness and despair.
Now is the ocean's bosom bare,
Unbroken as the floating air;

The ship hath melted quite away,
55 Like a struggling dream at break of day,
No image meets my wandering eye

But the new-risen sun and the sunny sky.
Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapor dull
Bedims the waves so beautiful;

60 While a low and melancholy moan

Mourns for the glory that hath flown.

8. ODE ON THE PASSIONS.

When Music, heavenly maid! was young,

While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,

Thronged around her magic cell;
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the muse's painting.
By turns, they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined :
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,

From the supporting myrtles round,
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart,
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
15 Each, for madness ruled the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.
First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid;
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.

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Next, Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings owned his secret stings,
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures, wan Despair-
Low sullen sounds!—his grief beguiled:
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
"Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance, hail.
Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
35 She called on Echo still through all her song:
And, where her sweetest theme she chose,

40

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair.

And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose.

He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down;
And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,

45 Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo;

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And, ever and anon, he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat:

And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his side

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien,

While each strained ball of sight-seemed bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed;

Sad proof of thy distressful state!

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed :

And, now it courted Love; now, raving, called on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

Pale Melancholy sat retired;
And, from her wild sequestered seat,

In notes, by distance made more sweet,

Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul,
And, dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels joined the sound;

Through glades and glooms, the mingled measure stole,
Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,
Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

But, oh, how altered was its sprightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.

The oak-crowned Sisters, and the chaste-eyed Queen,
Satyrs and sylvan Boys were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;

And Sport leaped up and seized his beechen spear.

Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial:

He with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed—

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol ; Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. 85 They would have thought who heard the strain They saw in Tempe's vale, her native maids, Amidst the festal-sounding shades,

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To some unwearied minstrel dancing:
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round,
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,
And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

O Music, sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid,
Why, goddess, why, to us denied,
Layest thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As in that loved Athenian bower
You learned in all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, Ø nymph endeared,
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise, as in the elder time,
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike age
Fill thy recording sister's page-
"Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,

Than all which charms this laggard age,
Even all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound-
Oh, bid our vain endeavors cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece;
Return in all thy simple state;
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

Collins.