"Haul down that rag of the good old flag,

'Tis murder, in such a sea,

To bid men come to a certain doom,
And perish as well as we.

"Men and brothers, they have mothers,

Boys like

yours and homes and wives;

Shall they, comrades, then, those undaunted men, Waste for us in vain their lives?"

They were rude, rough men, but they answered then In a stern, determined tone:

66 They shall not come to a certain doom,
We'll die and we'll die alone."

He seized that rag of the dear old flag;
The skipper spoke never a word,
But he tore the sign from the signal line,
And tossed it overboard.

Ye noble hearts, ye have done your parts
In a dire extremity;

And never more true was skipper or crew
That sailed on the stormy sea.

The wild waves smote in wrath on the boat;
The flashing foam flew o'er her;

But her gallant freight seemed a feather's weight,
And the love of Christ upbore her.

And strong arms strain, nor strain in vain

Amid the roaring billows;

And rescued men slept sound agen

That night on English pillows.

THE DYING NATURALIST.

I CARE not for splendours that man can achieve,
The pomp and the pageant of power;
Their glitter may dazzle, it does not deceive,
It cannot console, it will not relieve

My sadness of heart for an hour.

I heed not the praise and the plaudits of men,
The honours that fame can bestow;

They ravish the heart that is honest, and when
We dream we are blest as immortals, oh, then
They satiate, sadden, and go.

Oh, give me the joy of unclouded skies,
The smiles and the raptures of earth,

When she wakes from her sleep in a glad surprise,
And, uplifting her myriad of laughing eyes,
She bursts into innocent mirth.

Oh, give me the hope of the lengthening day,
The childhood and youthtide of flowers,
The hawthorn bud on the drooping spray,
Ere the bloom is touched with its soft decay,
And the sombre hue that is ours.

Let me watch the pale primrose unfolding its bloom, Let me swoon in the violet's breath;

They can lure my heart from its pensive gloom, My immature hope from its early tomb,

And my love from its lingering death.

Let me list till my fancy can hear the sweet strains
They sing to each other whilst growing;
They will soothe me to rest from my desolate pains,
Till my spirit shall burst from its shadowy chains
With joy of their song overflowing.

Oh, give me the joy and the sadness of earth,
The sunlight and shadows I love,

When the flow'rets come to a timely birth,
And the summer falls with its sweet young mirth
From the overfull skies above.

LOVE.

OH, where, in this world of shadows,
Is Love and its substance met?
In the heart that has sorrowed in loving,
And the love that was worthy of it.

Oh, where, in this world of deceit,

Is Truth and its substance found?
In the heart that has suffered in loving,
And in silence has hidden its wound.

Oh, where, in this world of mirage,
Of Hope is fulfilment born?

In the heart that was faithful in loving,
Though the hand by the rose had been torn.

Oh, where, in this world of defeat,

Is Day without cloud or night?

In the heart that has lived on its loving,
And its gladness not hidden from sight.

LIFE AND DEATH.

WHAT art thou, Life? A taper's ray
That shoots athwart the twilight grey,
A transient gleam, a little glow,

Kindled, we know not where or how?

1

What art thou, Death? The common dark That closes round a fading spark,

Claiming his own, for all are his,

Where all things go, yet nothing is ?

What art thou, Life? A tremor felt
Within a tiny lump of clay,

A laugh, a sigh, a sense of guilt,
And we and it are lost for aye?

What art thou, Death? A stillness deep
To which all earthly movement tends,
Atomic rest, a cosmic sleep,

Where all in chilly darkness ends?

What art thou, Life? The instinct rude

That thrills each elemental cell

To labour for the common good,

And build a form wherein there dwell

A myriad myriad living things,

All welded to a common whole,

A polity, wherein the kings

Are passion, lust, sense, conscience, soul?