In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry, Eight bells have struck and my watch is below. WALTER MITCHEL. SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA. WHERE the remote Bermudas ride In the ocean's bosom unespied, From a small boat that rowed along, The listening winds received this song: "What should we do but sing His praise, That led us through the watery maze Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, That lift the deep upon their backs, rage: He gave us this eternal spring And throws the melons at our feet; With falling oars they kept the time. "Lo," quoth he, "cast up thine See yonder, lo! the galaxie, That once was brent with the hete, The cart horses gan well aspie, Of that, and let the reynés gone Till both air and Earthé brend, |