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From which they leapt and live by miracle ;-
To see that horrid spectre of my thoughts
In all the stern reality of life-
To mark the living lineaments of hatred,
And say, this is the man whose sight should blast me;
Yet in calm dreadful triumph still gaze on:-
It is a horrid joy. (Crosses to L.)

Prior. Nay, rave not thus,
Thou wilt not meet him; many a day must pass
Till from Palermo's walls he wend him homeward,
Where now he tarries with St. Anselm's knights.
His dame doth dwell in solitary wise,
Few are the followers in his lonely halls-
Why dost thou smile in that most horrid guise ?
Ber. (Repeating.) His dame doth dwell alone. Per-

chance his childOh! no, no, no! it was a damned thought.

Prior. I do but indistinctly hear thy words, But feel they have some fearful meaning in them.

Ber. Oh, that I could but mate him in his might ! Oh, that we were on the dark wave together,

(Crosses to r.) With but one plank between us and destruction, That I might grasp him in these desperate arms, And plunge with him amid the weltering billows And view him gasp for life !-andHa! ha l-I see him struggling !I see him !-ha! ha! ha! (A frantic laugh.)

Prior. Oh, horrible! Help !-Help to hold him, for my strength doth fail.

Enter MONK, L.

Monk. The lady of St. Aldobrand sends greetingPrior. Oh, art thou come; this is no time for greet

ingHelp-bear him off-thou see'st his fearful state.

[Exeunt, bearing off BERTRAM, R.


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BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, Q.C., M.R.I.A. Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged—'tis at a white

heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased—tho' on the

forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable

mound, And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking

round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only

bareSome rest upon their sledges here, some work the wind

lass there.

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—Oh, 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 fiery, fearful

show; The roof-ribs swarth, the candent earth, the ruddy

lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before

the foe. As, quivering thro' his fleece of flame, the sailing mon

ster, slow

Sinks on the anvil-all about the faces fiery grow, “Hurrah!" they shout, “leap out—leap out!" bang,

bang the sledges go: Hurrah!" the jetted lightnings are hissing high and lowA hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing


The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders

strow The ground around : at every bound the sweltering

fountains flow, And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every



pant “ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on

load! Let's forge a goodly anchor-a 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 roadThe low reef roaring on her lee—the roll of ocean

pour'a 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 re

mains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch

sky high; Then moves his head, as tho' 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 begin 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 crafts

men here, For the yeo-heave-o', and the heave-away, 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


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


To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the

whales, And feel the churn'd sea round me boil beneath their

scourging tails ! 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 subtle sword-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 Nor

wegian isles He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallow'd 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-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's


To find the long-hair'd mermaidens; or, hard by icy

lands, To wrestle with the sea-serpent upon cerulean sands. O broad-armed Fisher of the deep, whose sports can

equal thine ? The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that tugs thy cable

line; And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by

day, Through sable sea and breakers white, the giant game

to playBut shamer of our little sports! forgive the name IgaveA fisher's joy is to destroy, thine office is to save. O lodger in the sea-kings' halls, couldst thou but under

stand Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that

dripping band, Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about

thee bend, With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their

ancient friend Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger

steps round thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride; thou'dst leap

within the sea !

Give honour to their memories who left the pleasant

strand, To shed their blood so freely for the love of Father

land Who left their chance of quiet age and

grassy churchyard grave, So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave-Or, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly

sung, Honour him for their memory whose bones he grows among

(By permission of the Author.)

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