CHAPTEE VIII. 



The floor is of sand like the mountain-drift, 

 And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow ; 



From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 



Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow. 



The water is calm and still below, 

 For the winds and waves are absent there ; 



And the sands are bright as the stars that glow 

 In the motionless fields of the upper air. 



***** 



And life, in rare and beautiful forms, 

 Is sporting amid those bowers of stone. 



And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms 

 Has made the top of the waves his own. 



Peecival. 



A DRAG ON SMALLMOUTH SANDS. 



I HAVE on two occasions described a dredging trip, 

 undertaken principally under the north line of coast, 

 ranging from Whitenose outward, and off shore 

 towards the spot where the East Indiaman, Aher- 

 gavenny, struck and sank with three hundred souls, 

 about fifty years ago. The place is still familiarly 

 spoken of by the fishermen under the ill-fated ship's 

 name, or as they frequently abbreviate it, "the Abbey," 

 and they pretend that the remains of the wreck may 

 still be seen. 



But frequently we varied the ground and its pro- 

 duce, by beating down to the southward, until we got 



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