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Strike in, strike in, the sparks begin to dull their rustling

red! Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be

sped; Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of

clay;

Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen

here, For the Yeo-heave-o, and the Heave-away, and the sighing

seaman's cheer; When, weighing slow, at eve they go-far, far from love and

home, And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.

In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last;
A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast.
O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me,
What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep

green sea !

O deep-sea diver, who might then behold such sights as

thou? The hoary monsters' palaces! methinks what joy 'twere now To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the

whales, And feel the churn'd sea round me boil beneath their

scourging tails ! Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn, And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory

horn ;

To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn,
And for the ghastly grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to

scorn; To leap down on the kraken's back, where ʼmid Norwegian

isles He lies, a lubber anchorage, for sudden shallowed miles; Till snorting like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls, Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far-astonished shoals Of his back-browsing ocean-calves ;--or haply in a cove, Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undinė's love,

To find the long-haired mermaidens; or, hard by icy lands, To wrestle with the sea-serpent upon cerulean sands.

O broad-armed Fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal

thine? The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that tugs thy cable

line: And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by

day, Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to

play; But, shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name I gave A fisher's joy is to destroy,—thine office is to save.

O lodger in the sea-kings' halls, couldst thou but under

stand Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping

band, Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee

bend, With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient

friend Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps

around thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride, thou’dst leap within

the sea !

Give honour to their memories who left the pleasant

strand, To shed their blood so freely for the love of FatherlandWho left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard

grave So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing waveOh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honour him for their memory, whose bones he goes

among !

XXXIV.-THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL.

(ANON.) This poem on the “Day of the Funeral" of the late Duke of Wellington in 1852,

was published anonymously. It was dated from “ Oriel College, Oxford." “The Duke of Wellington left to his countrymen a great legacy-greater even

than his glory. He left them the contemplation of his character. I will not say his conduct revived the sense of duty in England. I will not say that of our country. But that his conduct inspired public life with a purer and more masculine tone I cannot doubt. His career rebukes restless vanity, and reprimands the irregular ebullitions of a morbid egotism. I doubt not that, among all orders of Englislımen- from those with the highest responsibilities of our society to those who perform the humblest duties—I dare say there is not a man who in his toil and his perplexity has not sometimes thought of the Duke, and found in his example support and solace. Though he lived so much in the hearts and minds of his countrymen-though he occupied such eminent posts and fulfilled such august duties--it was not till he died that we felt what a place he filled in the feelings and thoughts of the people of England. Never was the influence of real greatness more completely asserted than on his decease. In an age whose boast of intellectual equality flatters all our self-complacencies, the world suddenly acknowledged that it had lost the greatest of men; in an age of utility, the most industrious and commonsense people in the world could find no vent for their woe and no representa. tive for their sorrow but the solemnity of a pageant; and we-we who have met here for such different purposes—to investigate the sources of the wealth of nations, to enter into statistical research, and to encounter each other in fiscal controversy, we present to the world the most sublime and touching spectacle that human circumstances can well produce—the spectacle of a senate mourning a hero!”– Disraeli's Speech on the Death of the Duke of Wellington.

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No sounds of labour vexed the quiet air
From morn till eve. The people all stood still,
And earth won back a sabbath. There were none
Who cared to buy and sell, and make a gain,
For one whole day. All felt as they had lost
A father, and were fain to keep within,
Silent, or speaking little. Such a day
An old man sees but once in all his time.

The simplest peasant in the land that day
Knew somewhat of his country's grief. He heard
The knell of England's hero from the tower
Of the old church, and asked the cause, and sighed.
The vet’ran who had bled on some far field,
Fought o'er the battle for the thousandth time
With quaint addition; and the little child,

That stopped his sport to run and ask his sire
What it all meant, picked out the simple tale,-
How he who drove the French from Waterloo,
And crushed the tyrant of the world, and made
His country great and glorious,-he was dead.
All, from the simplest to the stateliest, knew
But one sad story,—from the cottar's bairn
Up to the fair-haired lady on the throne,
Who sat within and sorrowed for her friend:
And every tear she shed became her well,
And seemed more lovely in her people's eyes
Than all the starry wonders of her crown.

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But, as the waters of the Northern Sea, (When one strong wind blows steady from the pole), Come hurrying to the shore, and far and wide As eye can reach the creaming waves press on Impatient; or, as trees that bow their tops One way, when Alpine hollows bring one way The blast whereat they quiver in the vale,So millions pressed to swell the general grief One way ;-for once all men seemed one way drawn; Or if, through evil hap and unforeseen, Some stayed behind, their hearts, at least, were there The whole day through, --could think of nothing else, Hear nothing else, see nothing!

In his cell The student saw the pageant; spied from far The long-drawn pomp which reached from west to east, Slow moving in the silence: casque and plume, And banner waving sad; the marvellous state Of heralds, soldiers, nobles, foreign powers, With baton, or with pennon; princes, peers, Judges, and dignities of church and state, And warriors grown grey-headed ;--every form Which greatness can assume or honour name, Peaceful or warlike,--each and all were there; Trooping in sable sorrow after him Who slept serene upon his funeral car In glorious rest! . . . . A child might understand

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That 'twas no national sorrow, but a grief
Wide as the world. A child might understand
That all mankind were sorrowing for one!
That banded nations had conspired to pay
This homage to the chief who drew his sword
At the command of Duty; kept it bright
Through perilous days; and soon as Victory smiled,
Laid it, unsullied, in the lap of Peace.

XXXV.- THE DIRGE OF NICHOLAS.

(W. S. DANIEL.) Nicholas, Emperor of Russia, died on the 20 March, 1855, while the Crimean

war was still raging. Dr. William S. Daniel, the gifted author of "Lays of the (Crimean) War," and

other fugitive poems, died recently in Edinburgh, where he was well known to literary men.

HARK, hark! to the telegraph bell !

There are news on the trembling wire,
That well their mighty message tell
In words of living fire;

A man lies dead

On a royal bed,
Who hath spilt man's blood like rain ;

But his hour is come,

And his lips are dumb,
And he'll never shed blood again :
Coffin him, coffin him under the sod,
Nicholas Romanoff meets his God!
Speed the news by the swelling sail

And the hoof of the desert steed,
To darksome nooks where mourners wail,

And fields where brave men bleed ;-
Speed the news to the freeman's strand,

And the captive's rayless cell--
Breathe them o'er Siberian land,
Where the Despot's victims dwell,

Crushed in body, seared in heart,
By the fell tormentor's art, -

And whisper low
O'er the silent snow-

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