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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 broached 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

Full many a time and oft;
But mirth is turned to melancholy,

For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet may 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 doffed ;
For though his body's under hatches,

His soul has gone aloft.

Dibdin.

Amyclas.

EN! jacet ad cautes, sine fune phaselus, Amyclas,

Deliciæ gregis ille marini :
Audiet haud iterum resonas super alta procellas,

Cui dominans Mors carbasa legit.
Nobilis huic inerat species, et mascula forma,

Et probitas, et pectus amicum ;
Inter transtra fide insignis, patiensque laborum,

Nunc abiit super ardua mali.

1

Huic stetit ingenium miris virtutibus auctum,

Promissique tenax et honesti ;
Carus ut ingenuis ubicunque sodalibus esset,

Carior et dulci Galateæ.
Carmina sæpe etiam festiva voce canebat,

Felicissimus inter nautas :
Sed læti in tacitum risus vertere dolorem ;

Ille abïit super ardua mali.

At tibi non gravior consurgat ventus, Amycla,

Cum Dominus terræque marisque,
Ære ciens omnes torvo, compellet in unum,

Qui verrunt tumidæ freta vitæ.
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,

Bid the prophet's form appear.
Samuel, raise thy buried head !

King, behold the phantom seer.'

6

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:
His foot in bony whiteness glittered there,
Shrunken and sinewless and ghastly bare:
From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame,
Like caverned winds, the hollow accents came.
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke.

Why is my sleep disquieted ?
Who is he that calls the dead ?
Is it thou, O King ?

Behold
Bloodless are these limbs and cold :
Such are mine; and such shall be
Thine to-morrow when with me.
Ere the coming day is done
Such shalt thou be, such thy son.
Fare thee well! but for a day;
Then we mix our mouldering clay.

Saulus.

QUÆ potes obscena voce excantare sepultos,

Forma Sacerdotis, te duce, surgat humo ! · Adsis ex Acheronte tuo mihi jusse, Samuel !

Ecce! Sacerdotis, Rex, tibi forma venit.'

Prodiit e tumulo cinctus caligine Vates,

Pallet ab inferna veste repulsa dies ; Lumina funereum testantur fixa soporem,

Vena suo vacua est sanguine, dextra riget. Candidus, et qualis solet esse silentibus umbris,

Pes leviter nudo concutit osse solum : Immoto tum verba labro, exanimique figura,

Ceu cava de scopulis flamina, rauca sonant. Vidit, et in medio procumbit pulvere Saulus :

Non quercus citior fulmine tacta ruit.

* 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,

Talis erit natus, talis et ipse pater.
Saule, brevi valeas ! paucis labentibus horis,

Mistus erit noster tempus in omne cinis :

Thou, thy race, lie pale and low,
Pierced by shafts of many a bow;
And the falchion by thy side
To thy heart thy hand shall guide ;
Crownless, breathless, headless, fall
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.'

Gamamer Gurton.

Sur le Collier d'un Chien.

Ne te promets point de largesse :

Quiconque me trouvera,
S'il me ramène à ma maîtresse,

Pour recompense la verra.

Anon.

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