Try Again.

Eliza Cook.

KING-BRUCE-Of-Scotland flung-himself down

In a lonely mood, to think;

"T is true he was monarch and wore a crown,
But his heart was beginning to sink :

For he had been trying to do a great deed
To make his people glad;

He had tried and tried, but could not succeed,
And so he became quite sad.

He flung-himself down in low despair,
As grieved as man could be;

And after a while, as he ponder'd there,
"I'll give it all up " said he .

Now just-at-the-moment a spider dropp'd,
With its silken cobweb clue,

And the king in-the-midst-of-his-thinking stopp'd
To see what the spider would do.

"T was a long way up to the ceiling dome,
And it hung by a rope so fine,

That how it would get to its cobweb-home
King Bruce could not divine..

It soon began to cling and crawl
Straight up with strong endeavour,
But down it came, with a slipping sprawl,
As near to the ground as ever.

Up,-up it ran, not-a-second it stay'd
To utter the least complaint

Till it fell still lower, and there it laid
A little dizzy and faint.

Its head grew steady,-again it went,
And travell'd a half-yard higher;
'T was a delicate thread it had to tread,
And a road where its feet would tire.

Again it fell, and swung below,
But again it quickly mounted,
Till up-and-down now-fast,-now-slow
Nine brave attempts were counted.

"Sure,” cried the king, "that foolish thing Will strive no more to climb,

When it toils so hard to reach and cling.
And tumbles every time.'

But up the insect went once more

Ah me! 't is an anxious minute,

He's only a foot from his cobweb door-
Oh, say! will he lose or win it?

Steadily, steadily, inch-by-inch,
Higher and higher he got,

And a bold little run at-the-very-last-pinch
Put him into his native spot.

"Bravo, bravo!" the king cried out,

"All honour to those who try! The spider up there defied despair

He conquer'd, and why should n't I?"

And Bruce-of-Scotland braced his mind:

And gossips tell the tale

That he tried once-more as he tried before,
And that-time he did-not fail.

Pay goodly heed, all you who read,
And beware of saying "I can't,"
T is a cowardly word and apt to lead
To Idleness Folly and Want.

Whenever you find your heart despair
Of doing some goodly thing;

Con over this strain, try bravely again,
And remember the Spider and King.

The Secret of the

of the Sea.

Longfellow.

AH! what pleasant visions haunt me

As I gaze upon the sea!
All the old romantic legends,

All my dreams, come back to me:

Sails-of-silk and ropes-of-sandal,
Such as gleam in ancient lore;
And the singing of the sailors,
And the answer from the shore.

Most of all, the Spanish ballad
Haunts me oft, and tarries long;

Of the noble Count Arnaldos

And the sailor's mystic song:

Like the long waves on a sea-beach
Where the sand as-silver shines,-
With a soft mon'tònous cadence,
Flow its unrhymed lyric lines.

Telling how the Count-Arnaldos,
With his hawk upon his hand,
Saw a fair and stately galley
Steering onward to the land

How he heard the ancient helmsman
Chant a song so wild and clear

That the sailing seabird slowly

Till his soul was full of longing,
And he cried, with impulse strong,
"Helmsman! for the love of heaven,
Teach me too that wondrous song!"

"Wouldst thou," so the helmsınan answer'd,
"Learn the Secret of the sea ?
Only those-who-brave-its-dangers
Comprehend its mystery!"

In each sail that skims th' horizon,
In each landward-blowing breeze,

I behold that stately galley,

Hear those mournful melodies,

Till my soul is full of longing

For the Secret of the sea,

And the heart of the great ocean

Sends a thrilling pulse through me.

The Stormy Petrel.

Barry Cornwall.

A THOUSAND miles from land are we
Tossing about on the roaring sea;
From-billow to-bounding-billow cast,
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast:
The sails are scatter'd about like weeds,
The strong masts shake like quivering reeds;
The mighty cables and iron chains,

The hull which all earthly strength disdains,
They strain and they crack; and hearts of stone
Their natural hard proud strength disown.

Up and down! up and down!

From the base-of-the-wave to the billows' crown,
Amidst the flashing and feathery foam
The stormy petrel finds a home;

A home, if such a place can be

For her who lives on the wide wide sea

On the craggy ice in the frozen air

And only seeking her rocky lair

To warn her young, and teach them to spring
At once o'er-the-waves on their stormy wing!

O'er the deep! o'er the deep!

Where the whale, and the shark, and the swordfish sleep!
Outflying the blast and the driving rain,
The petrel telleth her tale in vain :—
For the mariner curseth the warning bird
Who bringeth him news of the storm unheard:
Ah! thus does the prophet of good or ill
Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still;
Yet, he never falters;-so, petrel! spring
Once-more o'er-the-waves on thy stormy wing.