SHADOWS OF BEAUTY. Shadows of Beauty From the depth of this fountain, As the cloud shapen giant Bestrides the Hartz mountain! Come as ye were That our eyes may behold The model in air Of the form I will mould, Bright as the Isis, When the ether is spanned! Such his desire is; Such my command. Demons heroic! Demons, who wore The form of stoic, Or sophist of Yore; To each bright Roman picture, LIVE AND BE JOLLY. Through deserts we roam, yet plenty ye-find, With a paunch jolly fed, and a jolly good mind, No mountains we climb-o'er the ocean we roll, Caravan trading sinners must pay us our toll. So equal our justice, all share the same fate, And each leave a trifle to mend our estate. To be nice about trifles is trifling with folly, The right hand of lite is to live and be jolly. The convent we scale, and we find at the shrine Fat pullets, and triars, and flaskets of wine, Pious fathers, we cry, let your care be the soul, Since you preach up lean fat-let us have the full bowl; So pies, pullets, and flaskets, we merrily take, While they shudder with fear, with laughter we shake, To be nice about trifles is trifling and folly, LOVE AND LAURA. On a bank, where circling trees Had lull'd asleep the gentle maid. Love, on sportive wing, there flying, His keen dart then carefully The archer choose, and laugh'd the while; But when aiming at her, she Awoke, and saw the urchin's guile. In vain, she cried, is all your skill, THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. The martial pomp, the mournful train, The plaintive fife and muffled drum, The ever-living laurel round his sacred tomb. Nor deem it hard, ye thoughtless gay, The plaintive fife, &c. STEADY SHE GOES, ALL'S WELL! The British tar no peril knows, But, fearless, braves the stormy deep; The ship's his cradle of repose, And sweetly rocks him to his sleep He, though the raging surges swell, In his hammock swings, When the steerman sings, While to the main top yard he springs, When the steersman sings, Steady she goes, all's well! YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. Ye mariners of England, That guard our native seas, Whose flag has braved a thousand years While the stormy tempests blow, The spirit of your fathers Shall start from every wave, For the deck it was their field of fame, Britannia needs no bulwark, Nor towers along the s'eep, Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep, With thunders from her native oak She squalls the floods below As they roar on the shore, When the stormy tempests blow, When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till dangers troubled night depart Then, ye ocean warriors, Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow, When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. |