Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge,
And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the tops,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deafening clamours in the slippery clouds,
That with the hurly,* death itself awakes?
Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude ;
And, in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then, happy low lie-down!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
SHAKESPERE'S HENRY IV., PART II.
"EARTH to earth, and dust to dust!"
Here the evil and the just,
Here the youthful and the old,
Here the fearful and the bold,
Here the matron and the maid,
In one silent bed are laid;
Here the vassal and the king,
Side by side, lie withering;
Here the sword and sceptre rust.—
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"
Age on age shall roll along
O'er this pale and mighty throng;
Those that wept them, those that weep,
All shall with these sleepers sleep:
Brothers, sisters of the worm,
Summer's sun, or winter's storm,
Song of peace, or battle roar,
Ne'er shall break their slumbers more; Earth shall keep his sullen trust.— "Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"
But a day is coming fast,
Earth, thy mightiest and thy last;
It shall come in fear and wonder,
Heralded by trump and thunder;
It shall come in strife and toil,
It shall come in blood and spoil,
It shall come in empires' groans,
Burning temples,-trampled thrones,—
Then, Ambition, rue thy lust.-
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"
Then shall come the judgment-sign,
In the east the King shall shine,
Flashing from heaven's golden gate,
Thousands, thousands, round his state,
Spirits with the crown and plume.
Tremble, then, thou sullen tomb!
Heaven shall open on our sight,
Earth be turned to living light,
Spirits of the ransomed just.—
“Earth to earth, and dust to dust.”
Then shall, gorgeous as a gem,
Shine thy mount, Jerusalem,
Then shall in the desert rise
Fruits of more than Paradise;
Earth by angel-feet be trod,
One great garden of her God,
Till are dried the martyr's tears,
Through a glorious thousand years;
Now in hope of Him we trust-
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"
THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
The dew, on his thin robe, hung heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd, when, at twilight repairing;
To wander alone, by the wind-beaten hill :
But the day-star attracted his eyes' sad devotion,
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the Ocean,
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of-ERIN-GO-BRAGH.
Sad, sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger,
The wild deer and wolf, to a covert can flee;
But I have no refuge from famine, or danger,
A home, and a country remain not for me;
Never, again, in the green sunny bow'rs,
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp, with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of-ERIN-GO-BRAGH!
Erin my country! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams, I revisit thy sea-beaten shore!
But alas! in a far distant land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends, who can meet me no more! Oh! cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me,
In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never, again, shall my brothers embrace me?
They died to defend me, or live-to deplore!
Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother, that look'd on my childhood,
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?
Oh! my mad soul, long abandon'd by pleasure,
Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall, without measure,
But rapture, and beauty, they cannot recall!
Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw:
Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing,
Land of my forefathers! ERIN-GO-BRAGH!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields,-sweetest isle of the Ocean!
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion—
ERIN-MAVOURNEEN-ERIN-GO-BRAGH!
MR. BUBB was a Whig orator, also a soap laborator,
For every thing's new-christen'd in the present day: He was follow'd and ador'd, by the Common Council Board,
And lived quite genteel with a one-horse chay.
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