The grief that on my quiet preys,

And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free:
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon hornèd moon
And lightning in yon cloud,
And-hark the music, mariners!—
The wind is piping loud,
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free,
While the hollow oak our palace is;
Our heritage, the sea.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

THE UNKNOWN GRAVE.

tongue,

It is a question idle all! Ask of the breezes as they blow:

Say, do they heed or hear thy call? They murmur in the trees around, And mock thy voice, an empty sound.

A hundred summer suns have showered
Their fostering warmth and radiance bright,
A hundred winter storms have lowered
With piercing floods and hues of night,
Since first this remnant of his race
Did tenant his lone dwelling-place.

Say, did he come from East, from West, From southern climes, or where the pole With frosty sceptre doth arrest

The howling billows as they roll? Within what realm of peace or strife Did he first draw the breath of life?

Was he of high or low degree?

Did grandeur smile upon his lot?

down,

When she, his chosen, blossoming

In beauty, deemed him all her own,
And forward looked to happier years
Than ever blessed this vale of tears?

By day, by night, through calm and storm,
O'er distant oceans did he roam,
Far from his land, a lonely form,

The deck his walk, the sea his home?
Tossed he on wild Biscayan wave,
Or where smooth tides Panama lave?

No trace remains of life's career? Mortal, whoe'er thou art, for thee A moral lesson gloweth here. Puttest thou in aught of earth thy trust? 'Tis doomed that dust shall mix with dust.

What doth it matter, then, if thus,

Without a stone, without a name, To impotently herald us,

We float not on the breath of fame, But like the dewdrop from the flower Pass after glittering for an hour?

When False Suspect accusèa me.

A pack of pickthanks were the rest,
Which came false witness for to bear;
The jury such, the judge unjust,
Sentence was said, "I should be trussed."

Jealous, the gaoler, bound me fast To hear the verdict of the bill; "George," quoth the judge, "now thou art

cast,

Thou must go hence to Heavy Hill, And there be hanged all but the head; God rest thy soul when thou art dead!"

Down fell I then upon my knee,

All flat before Dame Beauty's face, And cried, "Good lady, pardon me

Who here appeal unto your grace; You know if I have been untrue, It was in too much praising you.

hand:

Thou art arraigned of flattery;
Tell, therefore, how wilt thou be tried,
Whose judgment thou wilt here abide."

"My lord," quoth I, "this lady here,
Whom I esteem above the rest,
Doth know my guilt if any were,
Wherefore her doom doth please me best.
Let her be judge and juror both
To try me guiltless by mine oath.”

Quoth Beauty, "No, it fitteth not

A prince herself to judge the cause; Will is our justice, well ye wot, Appointed to discuss our laws;

If

you will guiltless seem to go, God and your country quit you so."

Then Craft, the crier, called a quest,

Of whom was Falsehood foremost fere;

To shed with shame my guiltless blood, Yet let your pity first be placed

To save the man that meant you good; So shall you show yourself a queen, And I may be your servant seen.”

Quoth Beauty, "Well, because I guess

What thou dost mean henceforth to be, Although thy faults deserve no less

Than Justice here hath judged thee, Wilt thou be bound to stint all strife, And be true prisoner all thy life?"

'Yea, madam," quoth I, "that I shall : Lo, Faith and Truth my sureties." "Why, then," quoth she, "come when I call: I ask no better warrantise." Thus am I Beauty's bounden thrall,

At her command when she doth call.

GEORGE GASCOIGNE.