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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
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;
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
To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn,
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
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.
No sounds of labour vexed the quiet air
The simplest peasant in the land that day
That stopped his sport to run and ask his sire
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
That 'twas no national sorrow, but a grief
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,
A man lies dead
On a royal bed,
But his hour is come,
And his lips are dumb,
And the hoof of the desert steed,
And fields where brave men bleed ;-
And the captive's rayless cell--
Crushed in body, seared in heart,
And whisper low