It left the shelving beach-and, with a sound
That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around
Self-launched, and swiftly, to the briny wave,
As if instinct with strong desire to lave,

Down went the ponderous mass. So bards of old,
How Delos swam th' Ægean deep, have told.
But not of ice was Delos. Delos bore

Herb, fruit, and flower. She, crowned with laurel, wore,

Even under wintry skies, a summer smile;

And Delos was Apollo's favourite isle.
But, horrid wanderers of the deep, to you,
He deems cimmerian darkness only dew.
Your hated birth he deigned not to survey,
But, scornful, turned his glorious eyes away.
Hence! seek your home, nor longer rashly dare
The darts of Phœbus, and a softer air;
Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast,
In no congenial gulf for ever lost!

THE CASTAWAY.

OBSCUREST night involved the sky;
Th' Atlantic billows roared,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Washed headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hopes, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast,
Than he, with whom we went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,
With warmer wishes sent.

He loved them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim he lay;

Nor soon he felt his strength decline,

Or courage die away;

But waged with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.

He shouted; nor his friends had failed
To check the vessel's course,

But so the furious blast prevailed,

That, pitiless, perforce,

They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford;
And, such as storms allow,

The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delayed not to bestow;

But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,
Whate'er they gave should visit more.

Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he,
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;

Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean self-upheld:

And so long he, with unspent power
His destiny repelled :

And ever as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried-" Adieu !"

At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,

Could catch the sound no more.
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him: but the page

Of narrative sincere,

That tells his name, his worth, his age,

Is wet with Anson's tear.

And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,

To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date.

But misery still delights to trace
It's semblance in another's case.

No voice divine the storm allayed
No light propitious shone;
When, snatched from all effectual aid,

We perished each alone:

But I beneath a rougher sea,

And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.

TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE

I. THE GLOW-WORM.

BENEATH the hedge, or near the stream,

A worm is known to stray; That shows by night a lucid beam, Which disappears by day.

Disputes have been, and still prevail,

From whence his rays proceed;

Some give that honour to his tail,
And others to his head.

But this is sure-the hand of night,
That kindles up the skies,

Gives him a modicum of light
Proportioned to his size.

Perhaps indulgent Nature meant,
By such a lamp bestowed,
To bid the traveller, as he went,
Be careful where he trod :

Nor crush a worm, whose useful light
Might serve, however small,

To show a stumbling stone by night, And save him from a fall.

Whate'er she meant, this truth divine Is legible and plain,

"Tis power almighty bids him shine, Nor bids him shine in vain.

Ye proud and wealthy, let this theme
Teach humbler thoughts to you,
Since such a reptile has its gem,
And boasts its splendour too.

II. THE JACKDAW.

THERE is a bird, who by his coat,
And by the hoarseness of his note,
Might be supposed a crow;
A great frequenter of the church,
Where bishop-like he finds a perch,
And dormitory too.

Above the steeple shines a plate,
That turns and turns, to indicate

From what point blows the weather.
Look up your brains begin to swim,
"Tis in the clouds-that pleases him.
He chooses it the rather.

Fond of the speculative height,
Thither he wings his airy flight
And thence securely sees

The bustle and the rareeshow
That occupy mankind below
Secure and at his ease.

You think, no doubt, he sits and muses
On future broken bones and bruises,
If he should chance to fall.
No; not a single thought like that
Employs his philosophic pate,
Or troubles it at all.

He sees that this great roundabout,
The world, with all its motley rout,
Church, army, physic, law,
Its customs, and its business,
Is no concern at all of his,

And says-what says he ?- Caw.

Thrice happy bird! I too have seen
Much of the vanities of men;
And, sick of having seen 'em,
Would cheerfully these limbs resign
For such a pair of wings as thine,
And such a head between 'em.

III. THE CRICKET.

LITTLE inmate, full of mirth,
Chirping on my kitchen hearth,
Wheresoe'er be thine abode,
Always harbinger of good,
Pay me for thy warm retreat
With a song more soft and sweet;
In return thou shalt receive
Such a strain as I can give.
Thus thy praise shall be expressed,
Inoffensive, welcome guest!
While the rat is on the scout,