Cease, for thy rival’s throat is throbbing With the fierce splendor of the hour: His is the art that grasps a passion, To cast it back with tenfold power. Cease, until yonder feathered poet Through all his wondrous song has run, And made the heart of wide creation Leap in the glory of the sun! * * * * * =MISS HARPER’S MAID.= It had been a day of boisterous excitement. The gravity of the ship had been strangely disturbed. We had “crossed the line” in the morning, and there had been the usual saturnalia on deck. Of these, as I was returning to India, after a sick furlough, I had been only a spectator; but still, when the evening came, and the fun was at an end, I felt sufficiently weary with the heat and excitement, to enjoy a quiet _causerie_ in my own cool cabin. My companions were a bottle of “private” claret, and the “chief officer” of the ship. Now this chief officer was an excellent fellow; I think that I never knew a better. His name was Bloxham. He was about eight-and-twenty years of age, with a round, fresh-colored, but intelligent face; bright, laughing eyes, and the whitest teeth in the world. There was in him a rare union of the best parts of the old and the new race of merchant seamen; that is, he had all the openness and frankness, the seaman-like qualities of the old men, without their coarseness and vulgarity; and he had the more refined and gentleman-like manners of the new, without their dandyism and effeminacy. He was in my eyes the very pink and perfection of a sailor.