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I seized the helm with a sudden jerk,
And we wheeled round like a bird;

But I saw the Gulf of Eternity,
And the tideless waves I heard.

“Good master,” said the Nautilus,
“I thought you might desire

To have some wondrous thing to tell
Beside your mother's fire.

“What's sailing on a summer sea?
As well sail on a pool;

Oh, but I know a thousand things
That are wild and beautiful!

“And if you wish to see them now,
You've but to say the word.”

“Have done!” said I to the Nautilus,
“Or I’ll throw thee overboard.

“Have done!” said I, “thou mariner old,
And steer me back to land.”

No other word spake the Nautilus,
But took the helm in hand.

I looked up to the lady moon,
She was like a glow-worm's spark;

And never a star shone down to us
Through the sky so high and dark.

We had no mast, we had no ropes,
And every sail was rent;

And the stores I brought from the charmèd isle
In the seven days' sail were spent.

But the Nautilus was a patient thing,
And steered with all his might

On the up-hill sea; and he never slept,
But kept the course aright.

And for thrice seven nights we sailed and sailed; At length I saw the bay

Where I built my ship, and my mother's house "Mid the green hills where it lay.

“Farewell!” said I to the Nautilus,
And leaped upon the shore;

“Thou art a skilful mariner,
But I’ll sai; with thee no more!”

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

CHARLES WOLFE.

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero was buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet, nor in shroud, we bound him;

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er

his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But nothing he'll reck, if they'll let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock told the hour for retiring;

And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone in his glory.

THE MARRIAGE OF SIR JOHN SMITH.

PHOEBE CAREY.

Not a sigh was heard, nor a funeral tone,
As the man to his bridal we hurried;

Not a woman discharged her farewell groan,
On the spot where the fellow was married.

We married him just about eight at night,
Our faces paler turning,

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the gas-lamp's steady burning.

No useless watch-chain covered his vest,
Nor over-dressed we found him;

But he looked like a gentleman wearing his best,
With a few of his friends around him.

Few and short were the things we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,

But we silently gazed on the man that was wed,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we silently stood about,
With spite and anger dying,

How the merest stranger had cut us out,
With only half our trying.

Lightly we'll talk of the fellow that's gone,
And oft for the past upbraid him;

But little he’ll reck if we let him live on,
In the house where his wife conveyed him.

But our heavy task at length was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;

And we heard the spiteful squib and pun
The girls were sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we turned to go,
We had struggled, and we were human;

We shed not a tear, and we spoke not our woe,
But we left him alone with his woman.

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