A rapid succession of earthquakes--bellowings--groans,--and
all was over. I was safe. On inspection of the footmarks, I felt quite
sure that some of them must have approached within ten yards of me,
and only two railings had intervened between me and their fury.
An honest tar from one of the men-of-war employed in unloading coal at
Willard's Wharf took the captain's gig, and made for my parasol and
visite as they floated away, and returned them with the very
unintelligible remark, that I'd "better not clear the wreck next time
unless it blew more of a breeze."
THE HOME-BEACON.
By Elkton wood, where gurgling flood
Impels the foamy mill,
Where quarries loom, in solemn gloom,
A mansion crowns the hill.
A pharos true, light ever new
Streams through its friendly pane,
To guide and greet benighted feet
Which thread the winding lane.
Lofty and lone, that light has shone,
Alike o'er green or snow,
Since first a pair their nest built there,
Two hundred years ago.
Now, as we walk, with pleasant talk
To cheer the dismal way,
That light shall tell of marriage-bell,
Of moon and merry sleigh.
The ancient home to which we come
These scenes revealed one night;
As the beacon true, so old, yet new,
Flung wide its cheery light.
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