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And on the shingles now he sits,
Then tries each cliff, and cove, and jut, that bounds
They ask him why he wanders so,
But I would go by land;
And there's no way that I can find-I've tried
It brought the tear to many an eye,
He shook.-"You know the spirit-horse I ride!
He views the ships that come and go,
Flinging a glory round them, as they keep
Their course right onward through the unsounded deep.
And where the far-off sand-bars lift
Into the air; then rush to mimic strife:-
But not to Lee. He sits alone;
No fellowship nor joy for him.
Borne down by wo, he makes no moan,
That asking eye.-O, how his worn thoughts crave—
The rocks are dripping in the mist
Scarce seen the running breakers ;—list
Lee hearkens to their voice.-"I hear, I hear
And now the mist seems taking shape,
Lee kneels, but cannot pray.-Why mock him so?
A sweet, low voice, in starry nights,
Its tones come winding up those heights,
And he must listen till the stars grow dim,
O, it is sad that aught so mild
Should bind the soul with bands of fear;
The man should dread to hear!
But sin hath broke the world's sweet peace-unstrung The harmonious chords to which the angels sung.
In thick, dark nights he 'd take his seat
Below-and hear it break
With savage roar, then pause and gather strength,
But thou no more shalt haunt the beach,
Nor go the round of all that reach,
Nor feebly sit thee down,
Watching the swaying weeds :-another day,
To night the charmed number 's told.
So hears his soul, and fears the coming night;
Again he sits within that room;
Weaken'd with fear, lone, haunted by remorse,
Not long he'll wait.-Where now are gone
Of airy glory?-Sudden darkness fell;
The darkness, like a dome of stone,
How hard Lee draws his breath!
He shudders as he feels the working Power. Arouse thee, Lee! up! man thee for thine hour!
"Tis close at hand: for there, once more,
But now she rolls a naked hulk, and throws
And where she sank, up slowly came
He treads the waters as a solid floor:
He's moving on. Lee waits him at the door.
They 've met.-"I know thou com'st for me,"
"I know that I must go with thee-
It was not I alone that did the deed!"
Dreadful the eye of that still, spectral steed!
Lee cannot turn. There is a force
How still they stand!—that man and horse.
"O, spare me," cries the wretch, "thou fearful one!" -"My time is full-I must not go alone."
"I'm weak and faint. O, let me stay!"
He bears him to the sea.
Hark! how the spectre breathes through this still night!
He's on the beach; but stops not there.
Holds him by fearful spell ;-he cannot leap. . Within that horrid light he rides the deep.
It lights the sea around their track-
They're seen no more; the night has shut them in.
The earth has wash'd away its stain.
The climbing moon plays on the rippling sea.
JAMES GATES PERCIVAL.
DR PERCIVAL was born on the 15th of September, 1795, in Kensington, a parish of Berlin, Connecticut. That parish had long been the residence of his paternal ancestors—the family of the Percivals having removed to that place from East Haddam in the same state, two generations before. His maternal ancestors had lived in the town of Kensington, so called at first, from the time of its earliest settlement. The father of the poet, whose name was James, was a highly reputable physician in Kensington, where he died 1807, in the midst of life, much lamented by the inhabitants. He left a widow and four children, one daughter and three sons, with a valuable estate, which he had acquired by his profession. The daughter, who was the eldest child, died two or three weeks after her father, and the three sons, all of tender age, were left to the assiduity and care of a mother.
Dr Percival is the second of the sons, and the only one that received a liberal education. From the earliest period at which he could read, he was fond of books; and in a short time treasured up in a remarkably retentive memory all the stores of school-boy learning. Among his companions at school, he was distinguished by the ease with which he could learn his lessons, by superior intelligence, by a gentle and retiring disposition, and by an abstracted turn of mind. He seldom engaged in the common sports of the school, even with the boys of his own age. He possessed also a share of that distressing diffidence, and sensibility to suffering from the rudeness of the older members of the school, which Cowper has so feelingly depicted in his own case.
The occasion of his learning to read, and the rapidity of his progress in the art, show strikingly the bent and powers of his understanding. At a time when he could only spell his words with difficulty, he received a book at school, which it was customary for the master on a Saturday to give to some deserving scholar, to be kept till the following Monday, and