I LOVED to hear the war-horn cry, For I was so ambitious then, I stood and saw the morning light, I sailed with storm upon the deep, I love to dream of tears and sighs, Some are away, The quiet graveyard, some lie there,―There's fears for them that's far awa' And cruel ocean has his share. We're not all here. We are all here! Even they, the dead,--though dead, so dear, Fond memory, to her duty true, Brings back their faded forms to view. And fykes for them are flitting; And nature's ties are hard to break, When thus they maun be broken; And e'en the form we loved to see, But Mary had a gentle heart, Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair, And when she couldna stray out by, But ilka thing we said or did But death's cauld hour cam' on at last, And may it be, whene'er it fa's, SAMUEL FERGUSON. THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged; 'tis at a white heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased, though 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 bare; Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass 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, — 0 Vulcan, what a glow! 'Tis blinding white, 't is 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 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, "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; 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 road; The low reef roaring on her lea; 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 ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burden be, The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal craftsmen we! |