Strange feeling fill'd them at his voice,
Even at that hour of wo,
That, save their lord, there was not one
Who wish'd with him to go.
But William leapt into the boat,
His terror was so sore;
"Thou shalt have half my gold!" he cried,
"Haste!-haste to yonder shore!"
The boatman plied the oar, the boat
Went light along the stream-
Sudden Lord William heard a cry,
Like Edmund's drowning scream.
The boatman paused: "Methought I heard
A child's distressful cry!"
""Twas but the howling wind of night,"
Lord William made reply;
"Haste!-haste!-ply swift and strong the oar! Haste!-haste across the stream!"
Again Lord William heard a cry,
Like Edmund's drowning scream.
"I heard a child's distressful voice,'
The boatman cried again.
"Nay, hasten on!—the night is dark—
And we should search in vain!"
"And, oh! Lord William, dost thou know
How dreadful 'tis to die?
And canst thou, without pitying, hear
A child's expiring cry?
"How horrible it is to sink
Beneath the chilly stream,
To stretch the powerless arms in vain,
In vain for help to scream!"
The shriek again was heard: It came
More deep, more piercing loud:
That instant, o'er the flood, the moon
Shone through a broken cloud :
And near them they beheld a child,
Upon a crag he stood,
A little crag, and all around
Was spread the rising flood.
The boatman plied the oar, the boat
Approach'd his resting-place;
The moon-beam shone upon the child,
And show'd how pale his face.
"Now reach thine hand!" the boatman cried,
"Lord William, reach and save!"-
The child stretch'd forth his little hands,
To grasp the hand he
Then William shriek'd; the hand he touch'd
Was cold, and damp, and dead!
He felt young Edmund in his arms!
A heavier weight than lead!
The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk
Beneath the avenging stream;
He rose, he shriek'd-no human ear
Heard William's drowning scream!
YE Mariners of England!
That guard our native seas!
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again,
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow!
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!-
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow!
While the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy tempests blow.
Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves:
Her home is on the deep!
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below-
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow!
The meteor-flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
Thunder Storm among the Alps.
It is the hush of night; and all between
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen-
Save darken'd Jura, whose capp'd heights appear
Precipitously steep; and drawing near,
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar;
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more;
He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill!
At intervals, some bird, from out the brakes,
Starts into voice a moment-then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill→
But that is fancy, for the star-light dews
All silently their tears of love instil,
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.
The sky is changed!--and such a change! O night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong!
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live thunder!-not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue;
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who cali to her aloud!
And this is in the night:-Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,—
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines!—a phosphoric sea!
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again 'tis black,—and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.
Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between
Heights-which appear as lovers who have parted
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted!
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,
Love was the very root of the fond rage
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then-departed!Itself expired, but leaving them an age
Of years all winters!-war within themselves to wage!—
Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand!
For here, not one, but many, make their play,
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand,
Flashing and cast around! of all the band,
The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd
His lightnings, -as if he did understand,
That in such gaps as desolation work'd,
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd.
WHEN first the fiery-mantled sun
His heavenly race began to run,
Round the earth and ocean blue,
His children four, the Seasons, flew.
First, in green apparel dancing,
The young Spring smiled with angel-grace: Rosy Summer, next advancing,
Rush'd into her sire's embrace
Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles,
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep,
On India's citron-cover'd isles:
More remote and buxom-brown,
The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;
A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
A ripe sheaf bound her zone!
But howling Winter fled afar,
To hills that prop the polar star,
And loves on deer-borne car to ride,
With barren darkness by his side,
Round the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to death the roaring whale!
Round the hall where Runic Odin
Howls his war-song to the gale!-
Save when adown the ravaged globe
He travels on his native storm,
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe,
And trampling on her faded form:-
Till light's returning lord assume
The shaft that drives him to his polar field,
Of power to pierce his raven plume,
And crystal-cover'd shield!
O sire of storms!-whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When Frenzy, with her blood-shot eye,
Implores thy dreadful deity-
Archangel! power of desolation!
Fast descending as thou art,
Say, hath mortal invocation
Spells to touch thy stony heart?
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