of Folkestone. For what, then, had I been
steering?

In coasting along from Rye to Dungeness,
the brilliant pharos of Cape Grisnez, on the
French coast, appears exactly ahead. Having
no compass to direct my course, and the land
being all but invisible, I, in place of rounding
Dungeness, and hauling to the northward, had
continued to stand right on across the Channel,
until (according to my after calculations) I was
at least twelve miles from shore.

Just as I arrived at this conviction, the breeze
died entirely away. The sea, too, had fallen.
There was nothing but a heavy harmless ground
swell. A change, however, might occur at any
moment, and, should it be for the worse, the
chance of making Folkestone in a little, open,
leaky boat, were but indifferent. There was
but one course to pursue. I handed my sails,
pumped the Eveleen free, drained the last
drops in my wine-flask, and, seizing my sculls,
turned the boat's head shoreward, and set to
work.

The Eveleen Brown was a heavy puller at the
best. Those four hours' labour were the severest
I have ever known. Often I was obliged to pause
a few moments from sheer exhaustion; and in
these intervals felt, in that watery solitude and
silence, intensely alone. It is said that those
whose duty it is to keep watch at night are
witnesses of many a strange phenomenon in sea
and air. It may be that fatigue and excitement
prompted my imagination, but at all events both
my ear and eye were sensible of impressions I
could not understand—singular gleams and
sweeps of light, rushes, and sighing cadences,
with now and then a deep booming plunge, and
one peculiar sound which twice recurred close
at hand, and was comparable to nothing but
some monstrous denizen of the deep coming up,
with a mighty gurgling gasp, to breathe.

So worn was I before reaching land, that it
was more by the weight of my body than by
muscular action of the arms that I still
continued to row; and never shall I forget the
relief I experienced in hearing the first welcome
sounds of land—the bark of a dog. I pulled
for that bark. It seemed to proceed from the
neighbourhood of a whitish patch of shore. A
few minutes yet, and the Eveleen grounded on
a small spit of white sand.

I was dreamily conscious of being assisted
out of the boat by several men of great breadth
and stature—of being hoarsely questioned as to
my name and object—of tumbling down on the
beach without reply—of good-natured giants
placing coats over me, and others under my
head—of reviving in a few minutes, giving a
satisfactory account of myself and views, being
assisted up to a sort of cave in the cliff, used
by the navvies at work on the then incomplete
railway as a refreshment-room, and there
partaking of some of the most execrable beer ever
surely poured down human throat; but, to mine,
nectar.

More distinctly do I recal to mind re-embarking,
in two hours' time, under the immediate
auspices of the coast-guard; and, having but
three miles of my course to retrace, arriving at
Sandgate to breakfast.

FAREWELL TO THE HOLY LANDS.
(Twelfth Century.)

    Ho, trumpets sound!
     And around, around
With the red wine yet once more, friends.
    Then to stirrup and selle,
     And, fare ye well,
And fast to the ships on the shore, friends.

    King Baldwin hath ta'en
     His own again.
And shout for the brave right hands
     That have won so well
     From the infidel
God's ground in the Holy lands!

    Here's first of all
     To the Amiral,
And fair weather to him and his bark:
    For a king among kings
    Is the lion with wings,
The lion of stout Saint Mark!

    And here's to the worth
    Of the West and the North,
And the hearts of the North and the West!
    And the eyes and the lips
    Of those sweet she-slips
Of the East, that we each loved best!

    Praise me the dame
    Whose sweet Southern name
I never could learn how to say,
    Tho' I well know the bliss
    Of her sweet Southern kiss,
That kiss'd better knowledge away:

    And I'll pledge you the Greek
    Learn'd lady's cheek
And her deep and dark eye-glance,
    Whose praises you sung
    In the great Latin tongue
Thro' the gardens of golden Byzance.

    Hi! shine out afar,
    Thou red even-star!
Shine over the seas and sands,
    And light me again
    To the wood, hill, and plain,
Where my own good castle stands.

    In Thüringenwald,
    In Thüringenwald,
The nightingale calls for me
    Thro' the clear spring night,
     When the walls gleam bright,
To the moon o'er the long dark lea.

    Over the Baltic,
    Black, basaltic,
Grim, with the wind in his grip,
    Your castle awaits,
    Behind barr'd gates,
The sound of that horn at your hip.

    Like a snowdrop, all,
    Shy, white, and small,
At the window your little daughter
    Is at watch for a sail,
    When the sun sets pale
On the great Suevonian water.