While armed from every danger and in grim array,
Anxious as howling demons waiting for their prey,
The forge the anchor yields from out its fiery maw,
Which on the anvil prone, the cavern shouts-hurrah!
And now the scorched beholders want the power to
gaze,

Faint with its heat, and dazzled with its powerful rays;
While as old Vulcan's Cyclops did the anvil bang,
To forge Jove's thunderbolts, their ponderous hammers
clang,

And till its fires extinct, the monstrous mass they beat, To save from adverse winds and waves the gallant British fleet.

CONWELL, THE PILOT.

OLD Conwell, the pilot, for many a year
Had plenty of vessels in charge;

[clear,

And he knew how each sand-bank and shoal to keep
While steering close-hauled or at large.

At last safely moored, with a well-timbered pursė,
Heart and house open wide to a friend,

With his Poll, once a dasher, now turned to a nurse,
He bought a snug birth at Gravesend.

In a sort of poop lantern placed over the Thames
Where he took with his messmates his grog,
Bound outward and homeward, the ships and their names,
They'd spy as they drank out their grog,

Then cocking their spy-glass and clearing the Nore,
My eyes! Jack, here they come without end';
There's the Neptune, the Glory, and further in shore,
Fame and Liberty making Gravesend.

And see how the river in branches divides,
In the form of a fork she is found;

How nobly the Spring down the river smooth glides,
To the Port of old Norwich she's bound

[sée !
There's the homeward-bound fleet from the Downs, only
So well-stored their top-gallant masts bend:
There's the Silk-worm, the Beaver, the Ant, & the Bee,
They're all standing on to Gravesend.

There's the Fortitude yonder at danger that mocks,
The Nimble and Swift there they go,

The bold Resolution, that steers clear of rocks,
The Britannia, that laughs at the foe.

Thus the magnet old Thames firmly holds in his mouth,
Which to all sorts of merchandise tend:

Thus the trade of all nations, east, west, north, & south, Like the needle points right to Gravesend.

I'VE BEEN ROAMING.

I've been roaming, I've been roaming
Where the meadow dew is sweet,
And I'm coming, and I'm coming
With its pearls upon my feet.

I've been roaming, I've been roaming
O'er the rose and lilly fair,
And I'm coming, and I'm coming
With their blossoms in my hair.
I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
Where the honey-suckle creeps,
And I'm coming, and I'm coming
With its kisses on my lips.

I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
Over hill and over plain,

And I'm coming, and I'm coming

To my bower back again.

IT IS NOT THE LIGHT.

It is not the light of the laughing eye,
Nor the tints of the glowing skin,

D. Sillery.

That is fittest to bloom in the bowers of the sky-
But the light of the spirit within!

Oh! give me the beauty that beams in the soul;
The exquisite tints of the mind!

They-they have the power of sweetest controul
O'er the hearts of the gentle and kind.

The soul in its earthly shrine, unimproved,
Resembles a gem in the mine;

And it is not till once the dark soil is removed,
That we see it transcendantly shine.

Then boast not of beauty a flower that soon dies! Nor the delicate tints of the skin;

For the loveliest blossom that blooms in the skies Is the beauty that's beaming within!

OVER THE DARK BLUE WATERS.

OVER the dark blue waters,

Over the wide, wide sea,
Fairest of Araby's daughters,

Say, wilt thou sail with me?

Where there no bounds to the water,
No shore to the wide, wide sea,
Still fearless would Araby's daughter
Sail on through life with thee.

On board, then, while the skies are light,
And friendly blows the gale,

Our hearts are as true as our bark, & bright
Our hopes as its sun-lit sail.

THE TEMPEST

HARK, hark! the Tempest rolls along,
It comes in dreadful majesty !

Flashes of lightning gleam along the sky,
Down comes a deluge of sonorous hail
Or prone descending rain.

Save, O save us! dreadful roars the storm,
And rolls its awful burthen on the wind.
Rolling, bursting, deepning, mingling,
Fearfully it comes, with peal on peal
Crush'd horrible. Huge uproar lords it wide,
And shakes the solid earth!

THE STORM IS PAST.

THE storm is past, the winds retire,
Nor longer sweep the troubled main :
The clouds disperse, the sun appears,
And lovely nature smiles again.

As twilight grey comes stealing on,
A solemn stillness reigns around:
While, slowly winding thro' the mead,
The lowing herds in chorus sound.

And now the clamouring quail is heard,
His evening song the cricket trowls,
The raven seeks her lofty nest,
The distant curfew tolls.

Now night resumes her sable reign,
And o'er the world her mantle throws,
While darkness falls upon the plain,
And all is stillness and repose.

THE CITY OF NORWICH! SUCCESS TO ITS TRADE.

Air" Anacreon in Heaven."

BRITANNIA, Sweet Goddess of Liberty's isle,

Great queen of the ocean, wherever it flows;

From the north to the south, from the west to the Nile,
Not a wind but thy glory incessantly blows!

While commerce so dear
Like thy seas doth appear,
Triumphant wherever thy flag is display'd;
And the toast it shall be,

Old England the free,

The City of Norwich, success to its trade.

And the toast, &c.

Though war may break on us by this or that foe,
The navy of Britain their wrath can despise;
And while British soldiers such laurell'd deeds show,
May our trade like their valour more gloriously rise!
Then fill, fill the glass,

Quick, quick let it pass,

The oaks of our billows they never can fade;

So let the toast be,

Old England the free,

The Port of old Norwich, success to its trade.

So let the toast, &c.

M

I'D BE A BRITISH TAR.

Air" I'd be a Butterfly."

I'd be a British tar, born on the ocean,

Where billows and wild waves are dashing around ; Sailing along, while the gales keep in motion,

And waft my brave bark to some far distant ground I'd be a sailor, with grog for my portion,

Seldom with Jack is there much sorrow found; I'd be a British tar, born on the ocean,

When Neptune is stirring the blue waves around, I'd be a British tar,

I'd be a British tar,

All careless and brave, in my cot sleeping sound. Landsmen may laugh at a sailor's devotion,

May talk of the joys and the pleasures of land; Think ye a bold tar would alter his notion,

Or leave his gay bark for a home on the strand? If England's foemen have vessels in motion,

Brave Jack must be there with true steel in his hand; I'd be a British tar, born on the ocean,

When tempests are raging or gales blowing bland: I'd be a British tar,

I'd be a British tar,

Born on the ocean, and far from the land.

THE OCEAN IS A SAILOR'S HOME.
WHEN riding on the midnight wave,
The dauntless sailor ever brave,
A noble mind displays;

He laughs at danger, smiles at fate,
And risks his life to save his mate,
Nor sordid fear betrays:

For well he knows, whate'er his doom,
The ocean is a sailor's home.

And when on shore midst needy friends,
His generous soul its succour lends,

To cheer their hapless lot;

When call'd from pleasure's luring train,
To brave the hardships of the main,
He flies and murmurs not.