On deck five hundred men did dance, The stoutest they could find in France; We with two hundred did advance On board of the Arethusa. Our captain hailed the Frenchman, 'Ho!' The Frenchman then cried out 'Hallo!' 'Bear down, d'ye see, To our Admiral's lee!' 'No, no,' says the Frenchman, 'that can't be!' 'Then I must lug you along with me,' Says the saucy Arethusa. The fight was off the Frenchman's land, We forced them back upon their strand, For we fought till not a stick could stand Of the gallant Arethusa. And now we've driven the foe ashore Never to fight with Britons more, Let each fill his glass To his fav'rite lass; A health to our captain and officers true, And all that belong to the jovial crew On board of the Arethusa. _Prince Hoare._ XLI THE BEAUTY OF TERROR Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? _Blake._ XLII DEFIANCE Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch's destinie: M'Pherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows tree. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He played a spring and danced it round, Below the gallows tree. Oh, what is death but parting breath?-- On monie a bloody plain I've dared his face, and in this place I scorn him yet again! Untie these bands from off my hands, And bring to me my sword! And there's no a man in all Scotland, But I'll brave him at a word. I've lived a life of sturt and strife; I die by treacherie: It burns my heart I must depart And not avengËd be. Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, And all beneath the sky! May coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dares not die! Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He played a spring and danced it round, Below the gallows tree. _Burns._ XLIII THE GOAL OF LIFE