"Who sails too near its jagged teeth, He shall have evil lot;

For the calmest seas that tumble there Froth like a boiling pot.

"And the heavier seas few look on nigh,

But straight they lay him dead; A seventy-gun-ship, sir! - they'll shoot

Higher than her masthead.

"Oh, beacons sighted in the dark, They are right welcome things, And pitchpots flaming on the shore Show fair as angel wings.

"Hast gold in hand? then light the land,

It 'longs to thee and me; But let alone the deadly rock In God Almighty's sea."

Yet said he, "Nay, I must away,
On the rock to set my feet;
My debts are paid, my will I made,
Or ever I did thee greet.

"If I must die, then let me die

By the rock, and not elswhere; If I may live, O let me live

To mount my lighthouse stair."

The old Mayor looked him in the face,

And answered, "Have thy way; Thy heart is stout, as if round about It was braced with an iron stay:

A Scottish schooner made the port, The thirteenth day at e'en; "As I am a man," the captain cried, "A strange sight I have seen:

"And a strange sound heard, my masters all,

At sea, in the fog and the rain, Like shipwrights' hammers tapping low,

Then loud, then low again.

"And a stately house one instant showed,

Through a rift, on the vessel's lee; What manner of creatures may be those

That built upon the sea?"

Then sighed the folk, "The Lord be praised!"

And they flocked to the shore amain:

All over the Hoe that livelong night, Many stood out in the rain.

It ceased; and the red sun reared his head,

And the rolling fog did flee;

And, lo! in the offing faint and far
Winstanley's house at sea!

In fair weather with mirth and cheer
The stately tower uprose;
In foul weather, with hunger and
cold,

They were content to close;

Till up the stair Winstanley went,
To fire the wick afar;
And Plymouth in the silent night
Looked out, and saw her star.

Winstanley set his foot ashore:
Said he, "My work is done;
I hold it strong to last as long
As aught beneath the sun.

"But if it fail, as fail it may,
Borne down with ruin and rout,
Another than I shall rear it high,
And brace the girders stout.

66 A better than I shall rear it high,
For now the way is plain;
And though I were dead," Winstanley
said,

"The light would shine again.

"Yet were I fain still to remain, Watch in my tower to keep, And tend my light in the stormiest night

That ever did move the deep;

"And if it stood, why then 'twere good,

Amid their tremulous stirs,

To count each stroke when the mad waves broke,

For cheers of mariners.

"But if it fell, then this were well, That I should with it fall; Since, for my part, I have built my heart

In the courses of its wall.

"Ay! I were fain, long to remain, Watch in my tower to keep, And tend my light in the stormiest night

That ever did move the deep."

With that Winstanley went his way,
And left the rock renowned,
And summer and winter his pilot star
Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound.

But it fell out, fell out at last,
That he would put to sea,
To scan once more his lighthouse
tower

On the rock o' destiny.

And the winds broke, and the storm broke,

And wrecks came plunging in; None in the town that night lay down Or sleep or rest to win.

The great mad waves were rolling graves,

And each flung up its dead; The seething flow was white below, And black the sky o'erhead.

And when the dawn, the dull, gray dawn,

Broke on the trembling town, And men looked south to the harbor mouth,

The lighthouse tower was down.

Down in the deep where he doth sleep,

Who made it shine afar,

Not free from boding thoughts, a while

The shepherd stood; then makes his way Towards the dog, o'er rocks and stones,

As quickly as he may;

Nor far had gone before he found A human skeleton on the ground; The appalled discoverer with a sigh Looks round, to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks The man had fallen, that place of fear!

At length upon the shepherd's mind
It breaks, and all is clear:

He instantly recalled the name,
And who he was, and whence he came;
Remembered, too, the very day
On which the traveller passed this
way.

But hear a wonder, for whose sake
This lamentable tale I tell!
A lasting monument of words
This wonder merits well.

The dog, which still was hovering
nigh,
Repeating the same timid cry,
This dog had been through three
months' space

A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain that since the day

On which the traveller thus had died
The dog had watched about the spot,
Or by his master's side:
How nourished here through such
long time

He knows, who gave that love sublime,

And gave that strength of feeling, great

Above all human estimate.

WORDSWORTH.

HELVELLYN.

I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,

Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide;

All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,

And starting around me the echoes replied.

On the right, Striden-edge round the
Red-tarn was bending,
And Catchedicam its left verge was
defending,

One huge nameless rock in the
front was ascending,
When I marked the sad spot
where the wanderer had died.

Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather,

Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay

stretched in decay,

Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather,

Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.

Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,

For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended,

The much-loved remains of her master defended,

And chased the hill-fox and the

raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?

When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?

How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?

And, oh, was it meet, that, no requiem read o'er him,

No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,

And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him, Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart?

When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded,

The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,

And pages stand mute by the canopied pall:

Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;

In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming;

Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,

Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,

When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in stature,

And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.

And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,

Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,

With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,

In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.

GEORGE NIDIVER.

SCOTT.

MEN have done brave deeds,
And bards have sung them well:
I of good George Nidiver
Now the tale will tell.

In Californian mountains
A hunter bold was he:
Keen his eye and sure his aim
As any you should see.

A little Indian boy

Followed him everywhere, Eager to share the hunter's joy, The hunter's meal to share.

And when the bird or deer

Fell by the hunter's skill, The boy was always near

To help with right good-will. One day as through the cleft

Between two mountains steep, Shut in both right and left,

Their questing way they keep,

They see two grizzly bears,
With hunger fierce and fell,
Rush at them unawares

Right down the narrow dell.

The boy turned round with screams,
And ran with terror wild:
One of the pair of savage beasts
Pursued the shrieking child.