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- While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Oh for a soft and gentle wind! But give to me the snoring breeze, There's tempest in yon hornèd moon, While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. A SEA DIRGE. FULL fathom five thy father lies: But doth suffer a sea-change Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : Ding, dong, Bell. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. TOM BOWLING. HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, No more he'll hear the tempest howling- Tom never from his word departed— His virtues were so rare ; His friends were many and true-hearted; And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly— 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. |