FLIGHT OF THE WILD GEESE. RAMBLING along the marshes, Whether I was in the right, And if I burnt the strongest light; High in the air, I heard the travelled geese Their overture prepare. Stirred above the patent ball, Nor near so wild as that doth me befall, Or, swollen Wisdom, you. In the front there fetched a leader, As it was near night, When these air-pilots stop their flight. Cruising off the shoal dominion Depending not on their opinion, Pulled with twilight down in fact, Spectators at the play below, Cannot land and map the stars Nor taste the sweetmeats in odd jars, "Up, my feathered fowl, all," My toes are nipped, let us render "Let's brush loose for any creek, Flutter not about a place, Mute the listening nations stand Appears no bigger than a mouse. How long? Never is a question asked, All the grandmothers about Then once more I heard them say,"Tis a smooth, delightful road, Difficult to lose the way, And a trifle for a load. "Twas our forte to pass for this, Proper sack of sense to borrow, Wings and legs, and bills that clat ter, And the horizon of To-morrow." CHANNING. TO A WATERFOWL. WHITHER, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day? Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast. And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. There's tempest in yon hornèd moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark, the music, mariners! The wind is wakening loud. The wind is wakening loud, my boys, The lightning flashes free; The hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease! Whom slumber soothes not, pleasure cannot please, Oh! who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, The exulting sense, the pulse's maddening play, That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way? BYRON: Corsair. THE CORAL GROVE. DEEP in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet and goldfish rove; Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine Far down in the green and glassy brine. The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow: From coral rocks the sea-plants lift Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow; The water is calm and still below, For the winds and the waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air: There with its waving blade of green, The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter: There with a light and easy motion The fan coral sweeps through the clear deep sea; And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean Are bending like corn on the upland lea; And life, in rare and beautiful forms, Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, That lift the deep upon their backs, He gave us this eternal spring And throws the melons at our feet; With falling oars they kept the time. |