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Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant,

my feet !

Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across

the sea,

With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you

and me : As He died to make men holy, let us die to make

men free,

While God is marching on.

JULIA WARD Howe.

THE GRAVE OF BONAPARTE.

On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billow

Assails the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave, The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willow,

Like fond weeping mourners, leans over the grave. The lightnings may flash and the loud thunders

rattle, He heeds not, he hears not, he's free from all pain ; He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last

battle, No sound can awake him to glory again.

Oh, shade of the mighty, where now are the legions,

That rush'd but to conquer when thou led'st them

on ;

Alas! they have perish'd in far hilly regions,

And all save the fame of their triumph is gone.

The trumpet may sound and the loud cannon rattle, They heed not, they hear not, they're free from

all pain ; They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their

last battle, No sound can awake them to glory again.

Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee,

For like thine own eagle, that soar'd to the sun, Thou springest from bondage, and leavest behind

thee, A name which before thee no mortal had won. Tho' nations may combat, and war's thunders rat

tle, No more on the steed wilt thou sweep o'er the

plain; Thou sleep'st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy

last battle, No sound can awake thee to glory again.

HENRY S. WASHBURN.

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

A WET sheet and a flowing sea

A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,

And bends the gallant mast-
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship Aies, and leaves

Old England on the lee.

Oh for a soft and gentle wind !

I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze,

And white waves heaving high-
And white waves heaving high, my boys,

The good ship tight and free;
The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners !

The wind is piping loud-
The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashing free;
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

A SEA DIRGE.

Full fathom five thy father lies :

Of his bones are coral made ;
Those are pearls that were his eyes :

Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange;

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell :
Hark! now I hear them,-

Ding, dong, Bell.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

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TOM BOWLING.

HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,

The darling of our crew;
No more he'll hear the tempest howling-

For Death has broach'd him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty ;

His heart was kind and soft ;
Faithful below he did his duty;

But now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed

His virtues were so rare ;
His friends were many and true-hearted;

His Poll was kind and fair.
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly-

Ah, many's the time and oft !
But mirth is turned to melancholy,

For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,

When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call life's crew together,

The word to pipe all hands.
Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches

In vain Tom's life has doff'd ;
For, though his body's under hatches,

His soul has gone aloft.

CHARLES DIBDIN,

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