"Haul down that rag of the good old flag, 'Tis murder, in such a sea, To bid men come to a certain doom, "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, He seized that rag of the dear old flag; Ye noble hearts, ye have done your parts And never more true was skipper or crew The wild waves smote in wrath on the boat; But her gallant freight seemed a feather's weight, 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, My sadness of heart for an hour. I heed not the praise and the plaudits of men, They ravish the heart that is honest, and when Oh, give me the joy of unclouded skies, When she wakes from her sleep in a glad surprise, Oh, give me the hope of the lengthening day, 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 Oh, give me the joy and the sadness of earth, When the flow'rets come to a timely birth, LOVE. OH, where, in this world of shadows, Oh, where, in this world of deceit, Is Truth and its substance found? Oh, where, in this world of mirage, In the heart that was faithful in loving, Oh, where, in this world of defeat, Is Day without cloud or night? In the heart that has lived on its loving, LIFE AND DEATH. WHAT art thou, Life? A taper's ray 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 A laugh, a sigh, a sense of guilt, What art thou, Death? A stillness deep 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? |