So the nautilus now in its shelly prow,
      As over the deep it strays,
    Still seems to seek, in bay and creek,
      Its companion of other days.

    And alike do we, on life’s stormy sea,
      As we roam from shore to shore,
    Thus tempest-tossed, seek the loved, the lost,
      And find them on earth no more.

    Yet the hope how sweet, again to meet,
      As we look to a distant strand,
    Where heart meets heart, and no more they part
      Who meet in that better land.

ANONYMOUS.

 THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK.

    I am monarch of all I survey,
      My right there is none to dispute,
    From the center all round to the sea,
      I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
    O Solitude! where are the charms
      That sages have seen in thy face? 
    Better dwell in the midst of alarms
      Than reign in this horrible place.

    I am out of humanity’s reach,
      I must finish my journey alone,
    Never hear the sweet music of speech,—­
      I start at the sound of my own. 
    The beasts that roam over the plain
      My form with indifference see;
    They are so unacquainted with man,
      Their tameness is shocking to me.

    Society, Friendship, and Love,
      Divinely bestow’d upon man,
    Oh, had I the wings of a dove,
      How soon would I taste you again! 
    My sorrows I then might assuage
      In the ways of religion and truth,
    Might learn from the wisdom of age,
      And be cheer’d by the sallies of youth.

    Ye winds that have made me your sport,
      Convey to this desolate shore
    Some cordial endearing report
      Of a land I shall visit no more!

    My friends—­do they now and then send
      A wish or a thought after me? 
    Oh, tell me I yet have a friend,
      Though a friend I am never to see.

    How fleet is a glance of the mind! 
      Compared with the speed of its flight,
    The tempest itself lags behind,
      And the swift-winged arrows of light. 
    When I think of my own native land,
      In a moment I seem to be there;
    But alas! recollection at hand
      Soon hurries me back to despair.

    But the seafowl is gone to her nest,
      The beast is laid down in his lair,
    Even here is a season of rest,
      And I to my cabin repair. 
    There’s mercy in every place,
      And mercy, encouraging thought! 
    Gives even affliction a grace,
      And reconciles man to his lot.

WILLIAM COWPER.

 THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.