My Arthur, whom I shall not sec
Till all my widow’d race be run :
Dear as the mother to the son,

More than my brothers are to me.

I HEAR the moise about thy keel;
I hear the bell struck in the night;
I sce the cabin-window bright;

I see the sailor at the wheel.

Thou bringest the sailor to his wife,
And travell'd men from foreign ords;
And letters unto trembling hands;

And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life.

So bring him: we have idle dreams:
This look of quiet flatters thus
Our home-bred fancies: 0 to us,

The fools of habit, sweeter seems

To rest beneath the clover sod,
That takes the sunshine and the rains,
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains

The chalice of the grapes of God;

Than if with thee the roaring wells &
Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine;
And hands so often clasp'd in mine, s

Should toss with tangle and with shells.

i

T.t.

Calm is the morn without a sound,
Calm as to suit a calmer grief,
And only thro' the faded leaf

The chesnut pattering to the ground:

Calm and deep peace on this high wold,

And on these dews that drench the furze,
And all the silvery gossamers

That twinkle into green and gold:

Calm and still light on yon great plain . • J That sweeps with all its autumn Ijowers,

And crowded farms and lessening tower-, To mingle with the bounding main:

Caim on the seas, and silver sleep,
And waves that sway themselves in rest,
And dead calm in that noble breast

Which heaves but with the heaving deep.