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With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves

run ;

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.

KEATS.

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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,
Thy favours are but like the wind

That kisseth everything it meets.
And since thou canst with more than one,
Thou’rt worthy to be kiss'd by none.

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;
Like sere flowers to be throwne aside ;-

And I shall sigh, while some will smile,
To see thy love to everyone
Hath brought thee to be loved by none.

NED BOLTON.

A

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

privateer!

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

Indian isle.

’Sblood ! 'twas a sorry fate he met on his own

mother-wave! The foe far off, the storm asleep, and yet to find a

grave!

With store of the Peruvian gold, and spirit of the No need would he have had to cruise in tropic

cane,

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

privateer!

A calm !-a calm !-a hopeless calm !-the red

sun, burning high, Glared blisteringly and wearily in a transparent

sky;

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 shore.

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.

WILLIAM KENNEDY.

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