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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 half-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.

I

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.

A

NED BOLTON.

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

cane,

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 welcomed Ned no more.

"Twas off the coast of Mexico-the tale is bitter

brief

The Black Snake, under press of sail, stuck fast upon a reef;

Upon a cutting coral reef, scarce a good league from land

But 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,—I,—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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