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When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still
Soul of the just! companion of the dead !
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
Ye Mariners of England !
That guard our native seas;
The battle and the breeze,
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!
And ocean was their grave;
As ye sweep through the deep,
Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;
Her home is on the deep.
As they roar on the shore,
The meteor-flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
And the star of peace return.
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
A Loved bequest—and I may half impart
To those that feel the strong paternal tie, How like a new existence in his heart
That living flower uprose beneath his eye. Dear as she was, from cherub infancy,
From hours when she would round his garden play, To time when as the ripening years went by,
Her lovely mind could culture well repay,
I may not paint those thousand infant charms,
(Unconscious fascination, undesigned !) The orison repeated in his arms,
For God to bless her sire and all mankind; The book, the bosom on his knee reclined,
Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind);
All uncompanioned else her years had gone, Till now in Gertrude's eyes their ninth blue summer shone.
And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour,
When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent, An Indian from his bark approach their bower,
Of buskined limb and swarthy lineament;
The red wild flowers on his brow were blent,
And bracelets bound the arm that helped to light A boy, who seemed, as he beside him went,
Of Christian vesture and complexion bright, Led by his dusty guide, like morning brought by night.
THE LAST MAN.
The Sun himself must die,
Adown the gulf of Time!
As Adam saw her prime!
The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
Around that lonely man!
In plague and famine some!
To shores where all was dumb!
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm passed by, Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis Mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.
What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;
The vassals of his will ;-
For all those trophied arts
Entailed on human hearts.
Go-let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Life's tragedy again.
Of pain anew to writhe;
Like grass beneath the scythe.
Even I am weary in yon skies,
To watch thy fading firc;