Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave; It seem'd as though some cloud had turned its hugeness to a wave!

Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face-- I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base!

I saw its alpine hoary head impending over mine!

Another pulse--and down it rush'd--an avalanche of brine!

Brief pause had I, on God to cry, or think of wife and home; The waters clos'd--and when I shriek'd, I shriek'd below the foam!

Beyond that rush I have no hint of any after deed-- For I was tossing on the waste, as senseless as a weed.

"Where am I? in the breathing world, or in the world of death?"

With sharp and sudden pang I drew another birth of breath; My eyes drank in a doubtful light, my ears a doubtful sound-- And was that ship a _real_ ship whose tackle seem'd around?

A moon, as if the earthly moon, was shining up aloft; But were those beams the very beams that I had seen so oft?

A face, that mock'd the human face, before me watch'd alone; But were those eyes the eyes of man that look'd against my own?

Oh! never may the moon again disclose me such a sight As met my gaze, when first I look'd, on that accursed night!

I've seen a thousand horrid shapes begot of fierce extremes Of fever; and most frightful things have haunted in my dreams-- Hyenas--cats--blood-loving bats--and apes with hateful stare,-- Pernicious snakes, and shaggy bulls--the lion, and she-bear-- Strong enemies, with Judas looks, of treachery and spite-- Detested features, hardly dimm'd and banish'd by the light!

Pale-sheeted ghosts, with gory locks, upstarting from their tombs-- All phantasies and images that flit in midnight glooms-- Hags, goblins, demons, lemures, have made me all aghast,-- But nothing like that GRIMLY ONE who stood beside the mast!

His cheek was black--his brow was black--his eyes and hair as dark; His hand was black, and where it touch'd, it left a sable mark; His throat was black, his vest the same, and when I look'd beneath, His breast was black--all, all, was black, except his grinning teeth.

His sooty crew were like in hue, as black as Afric slaves!

Oh, horror! e'en the ship was black that plough'd the inky waves!

"Alas!" I cried, "for love of truth and blessed mercy's sake, Where am I? in what dreadful ship? upon what dreadful lake?"

"What shape is that, so very grim, and black as any coal?

It is Mahound, the Evil One, and he has gain'd my soul!

Oh, mother dear! my tender nurse! dear meadows that beguil'd My happy days, when I was yet a little sinless child,-- My mother dear--my native fields, I never more shall see: I'm sailing in the Devil's Ship, upon the Devil's Sea!"

Loud laugh'd that SABLE MARINER, and loudly in return His sooty crew sent forth a laugh that rang from stem to stern-- A dozen pair of grimly cheeks were crumpled on the nonce-- As many sets of grinning teeth came shining out at once: A dozen gloomy shapes at once enjoy'd the merry fit, With shriek and yell, and oaths as well, like Demons of the Pit.

They crow'd their fill, and then the Chief made answer for the whole;-- "Our skins," said he, "are black, ye see, because we carry coal; You'll find your mother sure enough, and see your native fields-- For this here ship has pick'd you up--the _Mary Ann_ of Shields!"

TIM TURPIN.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

Tim Turpin he was gravel blind, And ne'er had seen the skies: For Mature, when his head was made, Forgot to dot his eyes.

So, like a Christmas pedagogue, Poor Tim was forc'd to do-- Look out for pupils, for he had A vacancy for two.

There's some have specs to help their sight Of objects dim and small: But Tim had _specks_ within his eyes, And could not see at all.

Now Tim he woo'd a servant-maid, And took her to his arms; For he, like Pyramus, had cast A wall-eye on her charms.

By day she led him up and down Where'er he wished to jog, A happy wife, altho' she led The life of any dog.

But just when Tim had liv'd a month In honey with his wife, A surgeon ope'd his Milton eyes, Like oysters, with a knife.

But when his eyes were open'd thus, He wish'd them dark again: For when he look'd upon his wife, He saw her very plain.

Her face was bad, her figure worse, He couldn't bear to eat: For she was any thing but like A Grace before his meat.

Tim he was a feeling man: For when his sight was thick, It made him feel for every thing-- But that was with a stick.

So with a cudgel in his hand-- It was not light or slim-- He knocked at his wife's head until It open'd unto him.

And when the corpse was stiff and cold, He took his slaughter'd spouse, And laid her in a heap with all The ashes of her house.

But like a wicked murderer, He lived in constant fear From day to day, and so he cut His throat from ear to ear.

The neighbors fetch'd a doctor in: Said he, this wound I dread Can hardly be sew'd up--his life Is hanging on a thread.

But when another week was gone, He gave him stronger hope-- Instead of hanging on a thread, Of hanging on a rope.

Ah! when he hid his bloody work In ashes round about, How little he supposed the truth Would soon be sifted out.

But when the parish dustman came, His rubbish to withdraw, He found more dust within the heap Than he contracted for!

A dozen men to try the fact, Were sworn that very day; But tho' they all were jurors, yet No conjurors were they.

Said Tim unto those jurymen, You need not waste your breath, For I confess myself at once The author of her death.

And, oh! when I reflect upon The blood that I have spilt, Just like a button is my soul, Inscrib'd with double _guilt_!

Then turning round his head again, He saw before his eyes A great judge, and a little judge, The judges of a-size!

The great judge took his judgment cap, And put it on his head, And sentenc'd Tim by law to hang, 'Till he was three times dead.

So he was tried, and he was hung (Fit punishment for such) On Horsham-drop, and none can say It was a drop too much.

DEATH'S RAMBLE.[27]

[Footnote 27: Of course suggested by Coleridge and Southey's _Devil's Walk_. It is ablaze with wit and real imagination. Old nursery tales are not so well remembered in these days that it is superfluous to point out that the "fee" being a prelude to "faw" and "fum," is taken from the formula of the Ogre in _Jack and the Bean-Stalk_, whose usual preliminary to the slaughter of his victims was--

"Fee, Faw, Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman!"]

One day the dreary old King of Death Inclined for some sport with the carnal, So he tied a pack of darts on his back, And quietly stole from his charnel.

His head was bald of flesh and of hair, His body was lean and lank, His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.

And what did he do with his deadly darts, This goblin of grisly bone?

He dabbled and spill'd man's blood, and he kill'd Like a butcher that kills his own.

The first he slaughter'd, it made him laugh, (For the man was a coffin-maker,) To think how the mutes, and men in black suits, Would mourn for an undertaker.