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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
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you
and me : As He died to make men holy, let us die to make
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
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 bends the gallant mast-
While, like the eagle free,
Old England on the lee.
Oh for a soft and gentle wind !
I heard a fair one cry;
And white waves heaving high-
The good ship tight and free;
And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
The wind is piping loud-
The lightning flashing free;
A SEA DIRGE.
Full fathom five thy father lies :
Of his bones are coral made ;
Nothing of him that doth fade,
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell :
Ding, dong, Bell.
HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew;
For Death has broach'd him to.
His heart was kind and soft ;
But now he's gone aloft.
Tom never from his word departed
His virtues were so rare ;
His Poll was kind and fair.
Ah, many's the time and oft !
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.
In vain Tom's life has doff'd ;
His soul has gone aloft.