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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,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms, and prelate's

rage:

He gave us this eternal spring
Which here enamels every thing,
And sends the fowls to us in care
On daily visits through the air.
He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows:
He makes the figs our mouths to
meet,

And throws the melons at our feet;
But apples, plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars chosen by his hand
From Lebanon he stores the land;
And makes the hollow seas that roar
Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The gospel's pearl upon our coast;
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound his name.
Oh! let our voice his praise exalt
Till it arrive at heaven's vault,
Which then perhaps rebounding may
Echo beyond the Mexique bay."
Thus sung they in the English boat
A holy and a cheerful note:
And all the way, to guide their
chime,

With falling oars they kept the time.
A. MARVELL.

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"Lo," quoth he, "cast up thine
eye,

See yonder, lo! the galaxie,
The which men clepe the Milky Way,
For it is white; and some parfay
Callen it Watling streete,

That once was brent with the hete,
When the Sunne's sonne the rede,
That hight Phaeton, would lead
Algate his father's cart, and gie.*

The cart horses gan well aspie,
That he could no governaunce,
And gan for to leape and praunce,
And bear him up, and now down,
Till he saw the Scorpioun,.
Which that in Heaven a signe is yet,
And for feré lost his wit

Of that, and let the reynés gone
Of his horses, and they anone
Soone up to mount, and downe de-
scend,

Till both air and Earthé brend,
Till Jupiter, lo! at the last
Him slew, and fro the carté cast.
CHAUCER.

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