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WHOSE are the gilded tents that And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies

crowd the way,

Where all was waste and silent yes

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The windlass strains the tackle
chains, the black mound
heaves below,
And red and deep a hundred veins
burst out at every throe:

It rises, roars, rends all outright,
O Vulcan, what a glow!

'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright, the high sun shines not so!

The high sun sees not, on the earth,

such a fiery fearful show; The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent

band, like men before the foe. As, quivering through his fleece, of flame, the sailing monster, slow

Sinks on the anvil:-all about the faces fiery grow.


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"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out leap out;" bang, bang, the sledges go;

Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low; —

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow,

The leathern mail rebounds the

hail, the rattling cinders strew The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow, And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "Ho!"


Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out, and lay on load! Let's forge a goodly anchor;· bower thick and broad; For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode,


And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road, The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains!

But courage still, brave mariners! the bower yet remains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky high; Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing-here am I."

Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time: Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime. But while you sling your sledges, sing, and let the burthen be, The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we! Strike in, strike in-the sparks be

gin to dull their rustling red; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped. Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the yeo-heave-o', and the heaveaway, and the sighing seaman's cheer;

When, weighing slow, at eve they go - far, far from love and home; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.

In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last;

A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast.

O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!

O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou? The hoary monster's palaces! methinks what joy 'twere now To go plumb plunging down amid

the assembly of the whales, And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging


Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn,

And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn; To leave the subtile sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn;

And for the ghastly-grinning shark to laugh his jaws to scorn; To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles

He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles;

Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls;

Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished shoals Of his back-browsing ocean-calves; or. haply in a cove, Shell-strewn, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love, To find the long-haired maidens; or, hard by icy lands,

To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands.

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OUR bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array

Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track:

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BENEATH an Indian palm a girl
Of other blood reposes;
Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl,
Amid that wild of roses.

Beside a northern pine a boy
Is leaning faney-bound,
Nor listens where with noisy joy
Awaits the impatient hound.

Cool grows the sick and feverish calm,

Relaxed the frosty twine, -
The pine-tree dreameth of the palm,
The palm-tree of the pine.

As soon shall nature interlace
Those dimly visioned boughs,
As these young lovers face to face
Renew their early vows!


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