Lured by the love of the genii, they move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes As on the jag of a mountain crag Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit, one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardours of rest and love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest on my airy nest As still as a brooding dove. That orbéd maiden with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof The stars peep behind her and peer: And I laugh to see them whirl and flee Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 3 Rack, thin flying broken clouds. From the Saxon rec, vapour. I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, I am the daughter of the earth and water, I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; For after the rain, when with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams I silently laugh at my own cenotaph," Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 4 The rainbow caused by the refraction of the sun's rays by drops of falling rain. 5 Because clouds are formed by condensation in the sky of water evaporated from the earth's surface. 6 Pa-vil-ion, a tent. From the Latin papilio, a butterfly, because it is spread out after the manner of a butterfly's wings. 7 Cen-o-taph, an empty tomb. From the Greek Kevos (ken'-os), emoty and rapos (taph-os), a tomb. THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. ANONYMOUS. [The following spirited poem appeared many years ago in Blackwood's Magazine, and is well worth reproduction here. It consists of two parts, the first being a description of the means and mode by which the glowing shapeless mass of iron at white heat is beaten into a trusty anchor; while the second is a speculative musing on the wonders that the anchor may possibly come in contact with beneath the surface of the sea when rushing through the water to its temporary resting-places below the waves, or when lying many fathoms deep as a holdfast to the good ship that tugs incessantly at the chain which holds it in check. Of these two parts the reader will perhaps prefer the first because it is a description of what is, while the second speaks only of what may be, or, in other words, because the first is pictured from reality, while the second owes its outline and colour to the imagination only. It would be difficult to find any description of an ordinary scene of every-day life that has been so far lifted above everything that savours of commonplace by the language and fancy of the poet. Half-a-dozen burly fellows with sooty faces and dressed in leathern aprons, hammering at a red-hot bar of iron, is a prosaic sight enough, and one that we would hardly care to go out of our way to see, but what does it not become when we regard it through the eyes and in the language of the poet? Truly in its ability to render the meanest object, the most ordinary scene attractive lies the true power of poetry.] COME, see the Dolphin's anchor1 forged; 'tis at a white heat now; The bellows ceased, the flames decreased: though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound; And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, An'-chor, a heavy shank of iron bent at the bottom, generally in opposite directions, and having these arms terminated by broad pieces, intended to hold a ship in a stationary position. From the Greek aуkupa (an-ku-ra), a hook or bent piece of iron. All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare; Some rest upon their sledges3 here, some work the windlass there. The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound4 heaves below, And, red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe; It rises, roars, rends all outright-O Vulcan,5 what a glow! 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright; the high sun. shines not so! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show; The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe; As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow Sinks on the anvil-all about the faces fiery grow-"Hurrah," they shout, "leap out-leap out;" bang, bang, the sledges go; Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low; A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow; The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders strow The ground around, at every bound the sweltering fountains flow; 6 And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "Ho!" 2 Pan'-op-ly, complete suit of armour, entire dress. From the Greek яaν (pan), all, every, and onλα (hopla), arms. 3 Sledge, a large and heavy hammer. From the Anglo-Saxon slagan, to strike or slay. 4 The black mound is the mass of small coal' within which the iron has been placed to get red-hot, and which is broken up and shows the glowing fire within when the iron is lifted out of its fiery bed before being swung on to the anvil. 5 The fire-god of the old Greek and Roman mythology. He was supposed to have his forges under Mount Etna, where the Cyclopes, a set of giants with a single eye set in the middle of the forehead, made the thunderbolts of Jupiter. 6 Swink'-ing, labouring, toiling. From the.Anglo-Saxon swincan, to toil or drudge. Swinken was an old English name for a ploughman or labourer. Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on loud! The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains, But courage still, brave mariners, the bower yet remains, And not an inch he deigns to flinch, save when ye pitch sky-high, Then moves his head as though he said, " Fear nothing— here am I!" Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time, Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime; But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burden be, The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal craftsmen we! Strike in, strike in, the sparks begin to dull their rustling red! Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped; Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; 7 Anchors are called by various distinctive names in reference to their size. The largest is the sheet-anchor, or shote-anchor, as it was originally called, because it was thrown or shot out to insure the safety of the ship. The next was the best bower, so called because it was hung at the bows of the ship. After this come the small bower, spare-anchor, stream-anchor, and kedgeanchor. The great iron shaft of an anchor is called the shank, the broad triangular pieces in which the arms at the bottom terminate are called the flukes, and the cross piece of wood at the top of the shank is termed the stock. A ring passes through the upper end of the shank through which the cable is passed. 8 Road, a place where ships may safely remain at anchor. From the Anglo-Saxon rade, a ride or roadway in which we can ride: hence ships are said to ride at anchor. Some roads are more exposed, and therefore more perilous than others. 9 The bower-anchors are slung at the bows, whence their name. The cable passes out through a hole in the ship's side, and the anchor is raised or lowered by means of a windlass. |