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THE PIRATE BOTHWELL TO HIS BARQUE. 



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Ho spread thy white wings to the breeze, 



Thou terror of the deep ! 

 Swift o'er the high and heaving seas 



In gallant bearing sweep ; 

 And far and wide, from strand to strand, 



Thy Master's might make known, 

 Whose sceptre is his own good brand, 



Thy quarter-deck, his throne. 



The past the past the perish'd past ! 



What gloomy clouds up-roll 

 Thick from its ruins to o'ercast 



The Hope-deserted soul ! 

 Why must the shades of buried Time 



Still haunt our altered life, 

 Till goaded on by Care to Crime, 



We drown them in the strife ? 



An outcast from my home, to bear 



An execrated name, 

 Deem they this spirit to Despair 



Can stoop from all its Fame ? 

 So let them deem till, with my sword, 



Upon the crimson'd flood, 

 My answer shall be darkly scored 



In characters of blood. 



Fame yet shall long and loudly speak 



Of Bothwell and his slaughters, 

 To blanch full many a rosy cheek 



'Mong Scotland's lovely daughters : 

 For many a pale and panting lip 



Shall bear a wild tale back, 

 From many a sacked and shattered ship 



That crossed my ravening track. 



With womb of fire, the thunder-cloud 



Scowls grimly overhead, 

 Till, bursting from its lurid shroud, 



The red death-bolts are sped : 

 Meet type for thee, my own brave barque, 



Bearing thy fiery crew, 

 To fix their foes with deadly mark, 



And ruin 'round them strew. 



Then spread thy white wings to the breeze, 



Thou terror of the deep ! 

 Swift o'er the high and heaving seas, 



In gallant bearing sweep ; 

 And far and wide, from strand to strand, 



Thy Master's rule make known, 

 Whose sceptre is his own good brand, 



Thy quarter-deck, his throne. 



A. 



