And rocked on that green skull,

With sated look and dull,

In gloomy pride looks o'er

The waste and wildered moor,

And dreams some other day
Shall bring him fresher prey;
When over bog and fen,

To lure wayfaring men,
Malicious spirits trail

A ground-fire thin and pale,
Which the belated wight
Pursues the livelong night,
Till in the treacherous ground
An unmade grave is found,-
Oh then, oh then, oh then,

We hurry forth amain, Ha! ha! his feeble cries

Begin our revelries.

III.

When the spirits of the North,

Hurl howling tempests forth;

When seas of lightning flare,
And thunders choke the air;

When the ocean starts to life,
To madness, horror, strife,
And the goodly bark breaks up,
Like ungirded drinking cup,
And each stately mast is split
In some rude thunder-fit;

And like feather on the foam,

Float shattered plank and boom;

When, midst the tempest's roar,

Pale listeners on the shore

Hear the curse and shriek of men,

As they sink and rise again

On the gurly billow's back,

And their strong broad breast-bones crack

On the iron-ribbed coast,

As back to hell they're toss'd,

Oh then, oh then, oh then,

We hurry forth again!

For amid such lusty cries,

Begin our revelries.

IV.

When aged parents flee

The noble wreck to see,

And mark their sons roll in

Through foam and thundering din,

All mottled black and blue

Their very lips cut through
In the agony of death,

While drifting on their path;

When gentle maidens stand

Upon the wreck-rich strand,

And every labouring wave

That doth their small feet lave,
Gives them a ghastly lover

To wring their white hands over,
And tear their spray-wet hair
In the madness of despair;-
Oh then, oh then, oh then,

We hurry home amain;

For their heart-piercing cries,

Shame our wild revelries!

A SABBATH SUMMER NOON.

THE calmness of this noontide hour,

The shadow of this wood,

The fragrance of each wilding flower,

Are marvellously good;

Oh, here crazed spirits breathe the balm

Of nature's solitude!

It is a most delicious calm

That resteth every whereThe holiness of soul-sung psalm,

Of felt but voiceless prayer!

With hearts too full to speak their bliss, God's creatures silent are.

They silent are; but not the less,

In this most tranquil hour

Of deep unbroken dreaminess,

They own that Love and Power

Which, like the softest sunshine, rests
On every leaf and flower.

How silent are the song-filled nests
That crowd this drowsy tree-

How mute is every feathered breast

That swelled with melody!

And yet bright bead-like eyes declare

This hour is extacy.

Heart forth as uncaged bird through air,

And mingle in the tide

Of blessed things that, lacking care,

Now full of beauty glide

Around thee, in their angel hues

Of joy and sinless pride.