“As with his wings aslant,
    Sails the fierce cormorant,
    Seeking some rocky haunt,
      With his prey laden,
    So toward the open main,
    Beating to sea again,
    Through the wild hurricane,
      Bore I the maiden.

   “Three weeks we westward bore,
    And when the storm was o’er,
    Cloud-like we saw the shore
      Stretching to leeward;
    There for my lady’s bower
    Built I the lofty tower
    Which to this very hour
      Stands looking seaward.

   “There lived we many years;
    Time dried the maiden’s tears;
    She had forgot her fears,
      She was a mother;
    Death closed her mild blue eyes;
    Under that tower she lies;
    Ne’er shall the sun arise
      On such another.

   “Still grew my bosom then,
    Still as a stagnant fen! 
    Hateful to me were men,
      The sunlight hateful! 
    In the vast forest here,
    Clad in my warlike gear,
    Fell I upon my spear,
      Oh, death was grateful!

   “Thus, seamed with many scars,
    Bursting these prison bars,
    Up to its native stars
      My soul ascended! 
    There from the flowing bowl
    Deep drinks the warrior’s soul,
    Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!”
      Thus the tale ended.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

 THE REVENGE.

 A BALLAD OF THE FLEET

 Tennyson’s (1807-92) “The Revenge” finds a welcome here because it is
 a favourite with teachers of elocution and their audiences.  It teaches
 us to hold life cheap when the nation’s safety is at stake.

    At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,
    And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came flying from away: 
   “Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!”
    Then sware Lord Thomas Howard:  “’Fore God, I am no coward;
    But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,
    And the half my men are sick.  I must fly, but follow quick. 
    We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?”

    Then spake Sir Richard Grenville:  “I know you are no coward;
    You fly them for a moment, to fight with them again. 
    But I’ve ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. 
    I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,
    To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.”

    So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day,
    Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;
    But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land
    Very carefully and slow,
    Men of Bideford in Devon,
    And we laid them on the ballast down below;
    For we brought them all aboard,
    And they blest him in their pain that they were not left to Spain,
    To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.