100 THE GROUND SWELL. 



waste of a mine. But if three fourths of the hours 

 which are spent over the glass, or in idleness or mis- 

 chief, were thus employed in the open air, health 

 would be a gainer; and many a subject of reflection, 

 as well as rational and improving conversation, obtain- 

 ed to supersede the ponderous jokes and inexplicable 

 puns which impinge upon our tympanum almost 

 wherever we fall into the society of half a dozen of our 

 species. Those, at least, who have any predisposition 

 for mineralogy, and convenience for passing a few oc- 

 casional hours in a lime quarry, or about the heaps of 

 a lead or copper mine, may gather, particularly from 

 the latter (with the additional zest of being self 

 collected) such a basis for the cabinet, as would give 

 them the strongest encouragement to more widely ex- 

 tended and intricate investigations. 



J. P. 



THE GROUND SWELL. 



How thou art writhing. O, them mighty Main ! 



And heaving, from afar, the mountain sweep 

 Of thine interminable folds, in pain : 



Yet every wind has drooped its wings in sleep ; 

 And though the moon is beaming on thy breast 



Queen of the waves thou heedest not her light ; 

 Though reigning Silence woos thy flood to rest, 



There seems no influence in her gentle might. 

 How wildly did the tempest grasp thy heart, 



In its vast depths, and make thee shriek on high 



To the black thunder, in thine agony ! 

 How fiercely did it wring thee, to impart 

 Convulsive motions to thy breast, so far 

 From where its foaming waters met the winds in war. 



FRANZ. 



