p-mast bending low.

Then, plunge I 'mid the ocean's roar,
My way by quiv'ring lightnings shewn,
To guide the bark to peaceful shore,
And hush the sailor's fearful groan.

And if too late I reach its side
To save it from the 'whelming surge,
I call my dolphins o'er the tide,
To bear the crew where isles emerge.

Their mournful spirits soon I cheer,
While round the desert coast I go,
With warbled songs they faintly hear,
Oft as the stormy gust sinks low.

My music leads to lofty groves,
That wild upon the sea-bank wave;
Where sweet fruits bloom, and fresh spring roves,
And closing boughs the tempest brave.

Then, from the air spirits obey
My potent voice they love so well,
And, on the clouds, paint visions gay,
While strains more sweet at distance swell.

And thus the lonely hours I cheat,
Soothing the ship-wreck'd sailor's heart,
Till from the waves the storms retreat,
And o'er the east the day-beams dart.

Neptune for this oft binds me fast
To rocks below, with coral chain,
Till all the tempest's over-past,
And drowning seamen cry in vain.

Whoe'er ye are that love my lay,
Come, when red sun-set tints the wave,
To the still sands, where fairies play;
There, in cool seas, I love to lave.

CHAPTER III

He is a great observer, and he looks
Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays,
he hears no music;
Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,
As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit
that could be mov'd to smile at any thing.
Such men as he be never at heart's ease,
While they behold a greater than themselves.
JULIUS CAESAR

Montoni and his companion did not return home, till many hours after the
dawn had blushed upon the Adriatic. The airy groups, which had danced
all night along the colonnade of St. Mark, dispersed before the morning,
like so many spirits. Montoni had been otherwise engaged; his soul was
little susceptible of light pleasures. He delighted in the energies of
the passions; the difficulties and tempests of life, which wreck the
happiness of others, roused and strengthened all the powers of his
mind, and afforded him the highest enjoyments, of which his nature was
capable. Without some object of strong interest, life was to him little
more than a sleep; and, when pursuits of real interest failed, he
substituted artificial ones, till habit changed their nature, and they
ceased to be unreal. Of this kind was th