THE wind is East, what little there is,
No'th-East by East, and the captain lays
His ship all lady-like in stays,
Stripped as far as it decent is.

For three points off her weather-bow

The curtain of mist that passed just now
Has shut the light out suddenly:
The big bright Eye that over the sea
Is rolling round unceasingly:

A dim white-darkness spreads about,
And sun, and moon, and stars are out,
Alow and aloft; from Holmes's Hole

To a point in the east'ard not yet known;

And where the White Bear, shook from the pole
By an avalanche, sits perched alone,

Or floating down to the southern sea

Stalks round in sullen majesty.

With a keen eye out for the wrecked that come
With the breaking surge to his icy home;

All over this waste of sea and land

The light is out as an unseen Hand

Had drawn a curtain over at once,

To cool it all for the summer months.

The sea rolls lazily, and whist,

As the motions of the whirling mist;
A pantomime of air and sea,

That hath a solemn witchery,

Which puzzles the cock, who has the right

If any one has, to know day-light;

But tired at last, he gives up, dumb

With wondering when the morn will come;

And after straining his lungs all day,

Kicks up a row in his family.

The porpoise out on the fishing ground
With a running start, comes upward-bound,
Then skimming along the ocean's brim,
And just in tone with its solemn hymn,
He snorts and blows, with a careless fling
Of his short bob-tail, as it suited him
Exceedingly, that sort of thing;
Or, startled from her easy swing,
The fluttering of a sea-bird's wing,
The moaning cry of some lost bird,
Or the dropping of a spar, is heard.
And sudden, as from eternity,
Quick to the eye and quickly missed,
Just in and out of the driving mist,
A something white moves slowly by,
And you know that a ship is drifting nigh;
A moment in, and a moment out,
And then with the lull, a smothered shout,
And all is dull and hushed again
To the still small talk of the mighty rain;
Or the Graves,' that never can quiet be
While a pulse is left in the heaving sea;
The gossiping Graves, now off the lee
You may hear them muttering, either side,
As the ship heaves round with the lazy tide;
And weary and faint, as a sick man raves,
Is the senseless talk of the gossiping Graves.

Farther down in the outer bay,
Knocking about as best they may,
The ships that rounded the cape to-day
Lie off and on, with a slow chasseé;
All sorts of freight, from tar to teas,
All manner of craft, that skim the seas:
Some, just come in from an eastern cruise,
Are big with the latest China news;
Some, ballasted with golden sand,
Are perfumed from Arabia's strand;
Some with a crust from the Levant,
And some without, are from Nahant;
(Oh, sweet to them as Sabbath bells
Would be the ring of its rocky wells!)
And many an enterprising Noah

Is there, with latest news from shore;
With pilot-boat so snug and taut,
And motion of grace, like an æronaut
Caught in a cloud, when the wind is low,
The sky above and the sea below:
But sauciest, among them all,

The harlequin of the mist-masked ball,
And livelier than the fisherman,
With jaunty roll the pinkie trim
Turns up his tail to the Indiaman,
(Either end is the same to him,)

Or skips around the steamer that plays
Like a thing bewitched in the general maze;

Feeling about, as shy of her limbs,

And careful and slow as a blind man swims.

And many a turn-coat stomach below,

That held out bravely until now,

Rises with every swell of the yeast

Peculiar to No'th-East by East.

II.

'Tis the morning hour by the Old South clock,
But the light is hardly enough to mock
The candles lit in the breakfast-room:
Ugh! ugh! Ugh! ugh!

Nobody up, but the maid and groom,
And not a spark to cheer the gloom:
Ugh! ugh!

Unless they get one up, those two,
By the candles lit in the breakfast room.

Is the day foggy and cold?

Decidedly-both foggy and cold;

And so for three long days shall be,
While hangs this mist o'er land and sea;

Three days and nights, like a frightful dream
Some say the earth is blowing off steam.

Boston is up, and its noisy blare
Strikes heavily on the muffled air;
Like the growling of some savage beast,
Hidden away at his morning feast:
A faint, dull light is off the east,
A trifle of cream, that mingles there
With the milky hue of the thick, dull air;
And by that light in the east, you guess
That the Sun is somewhere up to dress,
But, held back by some fond caress,
Has caught his night-gown over his head,
And- Boston, breakfasted,
Quite cool, thus knowingly looks up,
One hand holding the coffee-cup,

The other with the Morning Post'
To calculate' how long, at most,
'This heavy weather will hold on
So, breakfasts, dines, and sups, Boston.
Oh! pleasant reflections are every where
Except in this cursed atmosphere; .
But nothing whatever, unless their priest,
Disturbs your Boston phlegm the least;
Not even a storm, No'th-East by East.

IIL

THE iron chariots bowling on
From Albany and Stonington,

Are chiming with their thousand wheels,

And within, the living cargo reels

And nods about familiarly,

Each to the other, as he were a brother,

And all as the mist falls silently.

Five hundred noses point ahead,

And a thousand eye-lids closed, as dead

As already the silver coin had pressed,

And sealed them in their final rest;

So chill, from the mist of the neighboring deep,
Is the nodding, nibbling, icy sleep;

And dreams confusing go and come,

Which blessings are and a curse to some;
But all with a feeling of Devil-may-care,'
Peculiar to the rail-road car,

Or such as you fancy a witch's are

On a broom-stick ride in the midnight air;

Some promenade all' at Symms's Hole,

Or, Hands all around' at the Northern Pole;

The spot, where the earth having come to a crisis

The Sun goes around on the tops of the ices,

A weary Anchises;

Ices, like Alps, of all shapes and devices;

The pyramid, dome, the temple, and all

That seemed frozen music' to Madame DE STAEL;
While cluster of stars, with their beautiful eyes,
Just peep in between, with a kind of surprise;
Some fading, some flashing, all grouping anew,
Like the lights of a city, when passing in view,
Or laughing young girls, all crowding for places
In windows brim full of (God bless!) their sweet faces;
And thus night and day, vis-à-vis to each other,
Waltz round the horizon like sister and brother;
While deep in the vault, with a hand unseen,
(The 'unknown God' of the shifting scene,)
From the morning of Time, one star has stood
And ruled that glittering multitude.

Or, some may prefer, as it's here rather cold,
To mount on a streamer of crimson or gold,
And shooting off in a shaft of light,
Ride tangent up to the top o' the night,
And dip in the slant of the Sun, as he
Wheels up somewhere in the Indian sea;
Or wink to the wink of a new-made star,
Not yet rolled round, and caviare
To the general;' but here with a jar
That murders sleep, old Beelzebub,
With a kind of hip-hurrah!' hubbub,
A snort and a scream, has startled all;
And the lady in the travelling shawl

Has dropped her babe, too drugged to squall;
And stiff as a shaking Quaker sits
The gentleman in summer fits,'

No'th-East by East, a point too far;

His dream is true, that he left last night
New-York, at eighty of Fahrenheit -
And his coat in the baggage-car!

But dreams must change; and now they wake
To run on coffee and beef-steak;
The latest Picayune,' and then
A southern climate, to read it in;
A flower or two, a light and table,
To make the thing more passable;
A sea-coal fire, a Tremont-bath
All the dear comforts Boston hath
In such rich store; and her's so much,
No other rail-road leads to such :
But some, with stubborn memories
Of last night's ugly-sounding seas,
The few, with stomachs out of tone,
Dream every thing; but, senses gone,
Have no distinct conception what,
Save a fire, and a bed, and something hot,
In (oh, so like a home to one!)
The pleasant rooms at the Albion.

IV.

ALL night long, in the outer bay,

The ships have rocked with the lazy sea,
Off and on, with a slow chassee,

And all night long, on top of the mist,
The stars have danced unceasingly,
And the moon has smiled her prettiest;
Yet not one ray has wandered by:

Oh! when shall we have a brighter sky!

The wind is light and the light is dim,
But a single star worn pale and slim,
As though the journey had wearied him,
Has just come down from Heaven, to say
That the Sun is coming up this way,
With promise of a gala-day.

Great wonder had been, up there, he says,
That Boston lay so long in a haze;

And strange they had n't invented a way,
Some patent or other, to blow it away;
No'th-East by East had gone ashore
Below, some twenty leagues or more;
He had weathered the Cape about midnight,
And was taking a nap, to come up bright;
An hour, or two at the most, and he

Would bring the bloom of the orange-tree,

And swear it was just from Florida,
Caught last night at the fall of the dew;
He left as the stars came out of the blue,

And shunning the breath of the land, by sea

Has kept all fresh it fragrancy.

Thus spake, or looked the star, and soon

The air is soft as a breeze in June;

The sun comes down by way of the moon,

And all the sister stars and brothers,

And other lights, if there are others,

Mars, and his Tiger, all are out;

And right glad they look, as about to shout,
At sight again, their right good will
On Boston heights and Bunker Hill:
And Bunker Hill's great Orator,' ↑
Catching a ray from every star,

A small star near Mars.

The monument: vide WEBSTER.

Binds him a chaplet of Thirteen,
And silent, smiles upon the scene.
The mists have gone off silently,
And scarcely whispered their good-bye;
They have crept away with a stealthy roll,
Like the gathering of a noiseless scroll;
You may see them yet, as they glide away,
And hang their curtains about the bay;
While the pointed seas flash out between,
Like the spears of a host, in battle seen;
Or lift their white caps, one by one,

A welcome to the rising sun:
A moment's hush, on sea and air,
Still, as an angel passing were,

To bid them breathe a silent prayer,
And then, all free and gloriously

The Sun comes mounting from the sea,
As lightning had sprang sudden there,
And lingered in the atmosphere!
Again the languid pulses start
Like a rush of joy to a weary heart,
That hardly hath left a hope for such,
So mild its quick but gentle touch:
And now it clasps in warm embrace
All living things, and face to face
And lip to lip, shall cling all day,
Still giving life, unceasingly.
Beneath the clear unclouded sky
All quiet and still the islands lie,
Like monsters of the deep, couchant;
And farther out is cool Nahant,
A finger pointing the sea aslant;
The light-house top, and Nix's Mate,
And tall ships moving by in state,
With top-sails and top-gallants bent

To catch each wandering breeze that 's sent;

Some, just come in from Labrador,
Sweep by with the nod of an emperor;

And some are there, have dipped their spars
In waters that flash back of stars

A sky-full from each wave that swells

Its mounting crest in the Dardanelles;
Some, that have iced them at Cape Horn;
And some dash in, with topsails torn
In some such trifling matter as

A rough-and-tumble at Hatteras ;

And some, still warm from southern seas

And cotton bags, hail out, Balize;'

A long procession, dashing on,
Like the march of men to a clarion.