ou, you owld negarly villian! the back of my hand and the sowl of my
fut to you! May you want a gridiron yourself yet! and wherever I go,
it's high and low, rich and poor, shall hear of it, and be hanged to
you!

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

SAMUEL FERGUSON.

This fine poem is full of points for brilliant declamation;
at times there should be a flow of rapid narration, rising
frequently into shouts of exultation:

Come, see the good ship's anchor 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;
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare--
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves
below,
And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe!
It rises, roars, rends all outright--O, Vulcan, 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 swart, 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 quashing blow;
The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strow
The ground around: at every bound the sweltering fountains flow
And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "Ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!
Let's forge a goodly anchor--a bower thick and broad;
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode,
And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road--
The low reef roaring on her lee--the roll of ocean poured
From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board;
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 to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky-high;
Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing--