Seen in her course, nor 'mid this quiet heard;
Yet oh! how gladly would the air be stirred
By some acknowledgment of thanks and praise,
Soft in its temper as those vesper lays
Sung to the Virgin while accordant oars
Urge the slow bark along Calabrian shores;
A sea-born service through the mountains felt
Till into one loved vision all things melt!
Or like those hymns that soothe with
The gulfy coast of Norway iron-bound;
And, from the wide and open Baltic, rise
With punctual care, Lutherian harmonies!
Hush, not a voice is here! but why repine,
Now when the star of eve comes forth to shine
On British waters with that look benign?

graver sound

Ye mariners, that plough your onward way,
Or in the haven rest, or sheltering bay,

May silent thanks at least to God be given
With a full heart; "our thoughts are heard in heaven !"

CAVE OF STAFFA.

YE shadowy Beings, that have rights and claims
In every cell of Fingal's mystic Grot,

Where are ye? Driven or venturing to the spot,
Our fathers glimpses caught of your thin Frames,

And, by your mien and bearing, knew your names;
And they could hear his ghostly song who trod
Earth, till the flesh lay on him like a load,

While he struck his desolate harp without hopes or aims

Vanished ye are, but subject to recall;

Why keep we else the instincts whose dread law
Ruled here of yore, till what men felt they saw,
Not by black arts but magic natural!

If eyes be still sworn vassals of belief,

Yon light shapes forth a Bard, that shade a Chief.

THE END.