THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. And fast through the midnight, dark and drear, And ever the fitful gusts between The breakers were right beneath her bows, And a whooping billow swept the crew She struck where the white and fleecy waves But the cruel rocks, they gored her side, Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, At day-break, on the bleak sea-beach, To see the form of a maiden fair, The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 137 138 THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! On the reef of Norman's Woe! LONGFELLOW. 121. THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN. SWEET to the morning traveller The song amid the sky, Where twinkling in the dewy light, And cheering to the traveller The gales that round him play, And when beneath the unclouded sun Full wearily toils he, A soothing melody. And when the evening light decays, And all is calm around, There is sweet music to his ear In the distant sheep-bell's sound, But oh! of all delightful sounds Of evening or of morn, The sweetest is the voice of love That welcomes his return. SOUTHEY. 140 HOW GLAD I SHALL BE WHEN THE CUCKOO IS SINGING. 123. HOW GLAD I SHALL BE WHEN THE CUCKOO IS SINGING. How glad I shall be when the Cuckoo is singing, Decked out in their dresses so white and so pink; And playing And maying By valleys, and hills, and the rivulet's brink. How glad I shall be when the bright little daisies And playing And maying By upland and lowland, by dingle and dell. How glad I shall be when the furze-bush and clove: HOW GLAD I SHALL BE WHEN THE CUCKOO IS SINGING. 141 Like the branches so gay, we'll go dancing away, And playing And maying, And praise all the loveliness shower'd on earth. ELIZA COOK. 124. EVENING. How like a tender mother With loving thoughts beguil'd, Hark! to the gentle lullaby That through the trees is creeping; One little fluttering bird, Like a child in a dream of pain, Has chirp'd and started up, Then nestled down again; Oh! a child and a bird, as they sink to rest, Are as like as any twain. CHARLOTTE YOUNG. |