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THE FUGITIVES.

The waters are flashing,
The white hail is dashing,
The lightņings are glancing,
The hoar-spray is dancing

Away!

The whirlwind is rolling,
The thunder is tolling,
The forest is swinging,
The minster bells ringing -

Come away!

The Earth is like Ocean, Wreck-strewn and in motion : Bird, beast, man, and worm, Have crept out of the storm

Come away!

II. • Our boat has one sail, And the helmsman is pale; — A bold pilot I trow, Who should follow us now,' –

Shouted he

And she cried : 'Ply the oar ;
Put off gaily from shore !' -
As she spoke, bolts of death
Mixed with hail, specked their path

O'er the sea.

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And from isle, tower, and rock,
The blue beacon-cloud broke,
Though dumb in the blast,
The red cannon flashed fast

From the lee.

III. • And fear'st thou, and fear'st thou ? And see'st thou, and hear'st thou ? And drive we not free O'er the terrible sca,

I and thou?'

One boat-cloak did cover
The loved and the lover-
Their blood beats one measure,
They murmur proud pleasure

Soft and low ;

While around the lashed Ocean,
Like mountains in motion,
Is withdrawn and uplifted,
Sunk, shattered, and shifted,

To and fro.

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And with curses as wild
As e'er clung to child,
He devotes to the blast
The best, loveliest, and last
Of his name !

SHELLEY.

SONG.

O Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee; The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,

And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,

And o'er and o’er the sand,

And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see; The blinding mist came down and hid the land,

And never home came she.

O is it weed or fish or floating hair,

A tress o’golden hair,

O’ drowned maiden's hair,
Above the nets at sea ?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,

Among the stakes on Dee.'

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea; But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands o' Dee.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

THE FISHERMAN.

Hath the lone fisher on the lonely sea,
O’er the wide waters laboring, far from home,
For some bleak pittance e'er compelled to roam;
Few hearts to cheer him through his dangerous life,
And none to aid him in the stormy strife;
Companion of the sea and silent air,
The lonely fisher thus must ever fare;
Without the comfort, hope, — with scarce a friend,
He looks through life, and only sees — its end !

BARRY CORNWALL.

SIR PATRICK SPENS.

The king sits in Dunfermline town,

Drinking the blude-red wine;
O where will I get a gude skipper,

To sail this new ship of mine?'

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