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With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a hálf-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook ; Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring! Aye, where are
they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue. Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
DO confesse thou’rt smooth and faire;
And I might have gone near to love thee, Had I not found the slightest prayer
That lips could speak, had power to move thee : But I can let thee now alone As worthy to be loved by none.
I do confesse thou’rt sweet; yet find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
That kisseth everything it meets.
The morning rose that untouch'd stands
Arm'd with her briars, how sweetly smells ! But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands
Her sweets no longer with her dwells, But scent and beautie both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one.
Such fate, ere long, will thee betide,
When thou hast handled been awhile;
And I shall sigh, while some will smile,
JOLLY comrade in the port, a fearless
mate at sea, When I forget thee, to my hand false may the
cutlass be! And may my gallant battle-flag be beaten down
in shame, If, when the social can goes round, I fail to pledge
thy name ! Up, up, my lads !—his memory !-we'll give it
with a cheer, — Ned Bolton, the commander of the Black Snake
Poor Ned! he had a heart of steel, with neither
flaw nor speck ; Firm as a rock, in strife or storm, he stood the
quarter-deck; He was, I trow, a welcome man to many an Indian
dame, And Spanish planters cross'd themselves at whisper
of his name; But now, Jamaica girls may weep, rich Dons
securely smile, His bark will take no prize again, nor e'er touch
’Sblood ! 'twas a sorry fate he met on his own
mother-wave! The foe far off, the storm asleep, and yet to find a
With store of the Peruvian gold, and spirit of the No need would he have had to cruise in tropic
climes again : But some are born to sink at sea, and some to
hang on shore, And Fortune cried God speed ! at last, and wel
comed Ned no more.
'Twas off the coast of Mexico-the tale is bitter
briefThe Black Snake, under press of sail, stuck fast
upon a reef; Upon a cutting coral reef, scarce a good league
from landBut hundreds both of horse and foot were ranged
upon the strand. His boats were lost before Cape Horn; and, with
an old canoe, Even had he number'd ten for one, what could
Ned Bolton do ?
Six days and nights the vessel lay upon the coral
reef; Nor favouring gale, nor friendly flag, brought
prospect of relief: For a land-breeze the wild one pray'd, who never
pray'd before, And when it came not at his call, he bit his lip
and swore. The Spaniards shouted from the beach, but did
not venture near ; Too well they knew the mettle of the daring
A calm !-a calm !-a hopeless calm !-the red
sun, burning high, Glared blisteringly and wearily in a transparent
The grog went round the gallant crew, and loudly
rose the song, The only pastime at an hour when rest seem'd far
too long. So boisterously they took their rouse upon the
crowded deck, They look'd like men who had escaped, not men
who fear'd a wreck.
Up sprung the breeze the seventh day. Away!
away to sea Drifted the bark, with riven planks, over the
waters free; Their battle-flag these rovers bold then hoisted
top-mast high, And to the swarthy foe sent back a fierce defying
cry: “ One last broadside!” Ned Bolton cried ; deep
boom'd the cannon roar, And echo's hollow growl return'd an answer from
The thundering gun, the broken song, the mad
tumultuous cheer, Ceased not, so long as ocean spared the shatter'd
privateer. I saw her,-1,-she shot by me like lightning, in
the gale; We strove to save, we tack'd, and fast we shorten'd
all our sail : I knew the wave of Ned's right hand,-farewell !
-you strive in vain ! And he, or one of his ship's crew, ne'er enter'd port again.