surges under him,
And ride upon their backs; he trod the water,
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted
The surge most swoln that met him.
_The Tempest, Act ii. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.

The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land,
Breaks there, and buries its tumultuous strength.
_Luria, Act i_. R. BROWNING.

Thus, I steer my bark, and sail
On even keel, with gentle gale.
_The Spleen_. M. GREEN.

What though the sea be calm? trust to the shore,
Ships have been drowned, where late they danced before.
_Safety on the Shore_. R. HERRICK.

Through the black night and driving rain
A ship is struggling, all in vain,
To live upon the stormy main;--
Miserere Domine!
_The Storm_. A.A. PROCTER.

But chief at sea, whose every flexile wave
Obeys the blast, the aerial tumult swells.
In the dread Ocean undulating wide,
Beneath the radiant line that girts the globe.
_The Seasons: Summer_. J. THOMSON.

She comes majestic with her swelling sails,
The gallant Ship: along her watery way,
Homeward she drives before the favoring gales;
Now flirting at their length the streamers play,
And now they ripple with the ruffling breeze.
_Sonnet XIX_. R. SOUTHEY.

Thou wert before the Continents, before
The hollow heavens, which like another sea
Encircles them and thee; but whence thou wert,
And when thou wast created, is not known,
Antiquity was young when thou wast old.
_Hymn to the Sea_. R.H. STODDARD.

Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows.
Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and the ocean.
_The Homeric Hexameter_. SCHILLER. _Trans. of_ COLERIDGE.

SEASONS.

SPRING.

So forth issewed the Seasons of the yeare:
First, lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of flowres
That freshly budded and new bloomes did beare,
In which a thousand birds had built their bowres
That sweetly sung to call forth paramours;
And in his hand a javelin he did beare,
And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures)
A guilt, engraven morion he did weare:
That, as some did him love, so others did him feare.
_Faerie Queen, Bk. VII_. E. SPENSER.

The stormy March has come at last,
With winds and clouds and changing skies;
I hear the rushing of the blast
That through the snowy valley flies.
_March_. W.C. BRYANT.

March! A cloudy stream is flowing,
And a hard, steel blast is blowing;
Bitterer no