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, Yet may poor Tom find pleasant weather, 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 doffed; For though his body's under hatches, His soul has gone aloft. Dibdin. Amyclas. EN! jacet ad cautes, sine fune phaselus, Amyclas, Delicia gregis ille marini: Audiet haud iterum resonas super alta procellas, Cui dominans Mors carbasa legit. Nobilis huic inerat species, et mascula forma, Inter transtra fide insignis, patiensque laborum, Huic stetit ingenium miris virtutibus auctum, Carus ut ingenuis ubicunque sodalibus esset, Carmina sæpe etiam festiva voce canebat, Sed læti in tacitum risus vertere dolorem ; At tibi non gravior consurgat ventus, Amycla, Ere ciens omnes torvo, compellet in unum, Sic, quæ finis adest nautis et regibus æque, Mors frustra abripuit tibi lucem; Nam, subjecta foris, quamvis tibi membra rigescant, Spiritus it super ardua mali. H. J. H. Saul. THOU, whose spell can raise the dead, King, behold the phantom seer.' Earth yawned: he stood the centre of a cloud : Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud : Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye; His hands were withered and his veins were dry: From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame, 'Why is my sleep disquieted? Thine to-morrow when with me. Ere the coming day is done Saulus. QUA potes obscoena voce excantare sepultos, Prodiit e tumulo cinctus caligine Vates, Vena suo vacua est sanguine, dextra riget. 'Cur vocor in lucem? placidam quis suscitat umbram? Quis capiti requiem non sinit esse meo? Regi igitur, Saulo trahor obvius? Ecce, cadaver! Exsangues digitos et gelida ossa vide! Hæc mea sunt; et tu, quum crastina fulserit Eos, Mecum deposito corpore talis eris. Imo, ante æthereum quam sol compleverit orbem, Saule, brevi valeas! paucis labentibus horis, Thou, thy race, lie pale and low, Son and Sire, the house of Saul!' Byron. Ba! Ba! 'BA! ba! black Sheep, Have you any wool?' 'Yes, master, that we have, Two bags full: One for our master, And one for our dame, But none for the naughty boy That lives in the lane,' Gammer Gurton. Sur le Collier d'un Chien. NE te promets point de largesse : S'il me ramène à ma maîtresse, Pour recompense la verra. Anon. |