Then the Guns' alarums, and the King of Arums,

All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes, Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors,

The Prince of Potboys, and great haythen Jews:

'T would have made you crazy to see Esterhazy

All jool's from his jasey to his di'mond boots,

With Alderman Harmer, and that swate charmer

The famale heiress, Miss Anja-ly Coutts.

And Wellington, walking with his swoord drawn, talking

To Hill and Hardinge, haroes of great fame :

And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey (They call'd him Sowlt afore he changed his name), Themselves presading Lord Melbourne, lading

The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair, And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of PellMello,

The Queen of Portingal's Chargy-de-fair.

THE SOLDIER-BOY

I GIVE my soldier-boy a blade,
In fair Damascus fashion'd well;
Who first the glittering falchion sway'd,
Who first beneath its fury fell,

I know not; but I hope to know

That for no mean or hireling trade,
To guard no feeling base or low,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.

Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood

In which its tempering work was done : As calm, as clear, as cool of mood,

Be thou whene'er it sees the sun.

For country's claim, at honor's call,
For outraged friend, insulted maid,
At mercy's voice to bid it fall,

I give my soldier-boy a blade.

The eye which mark'd its peerless edge, The hand that weigh'd its balanced poise,

Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,
Are gone with all their flame and

noise

And still the gleaming sword remains ; So, when in dust I low am laid, Remember by these heart-felt strains, I gave my soldier-boy a blade.

TO THE NAUTILUS

WHERE Ausonian summers glowing
Warm the deep to life and joyance,
And gentle zephyrs, nimbly blowing,
Wanton with the waves that flowing
By many a land of ancient glory,
And many an isle renown'd in story,
Leap along with gladsome buoyance,
There, Marinere,

Dost thou appear
In faery pinnace gaily flashing,
Through the white foam proudly dash-
ing,

The joyous playmate of the buxom breeze,
The fearless fondling of the mighty seas.

Thou the light sail boldly spreadest,
O'er the furrow'd waters gliding,
Thou nor wreck nor foeman dreadest,
Thou nor helm nor compass needest,
While the sun is bright above thee,
While the bounding surges love thee:
In their deepening bosoms hiding
Thou canst not fear,
Small Marinere,

For though the tides with restless motion
Bear thee to the desert ocean,
Far as the ocean stretches to the sky,
'Tis all thine own, 't is all thy empery.

THE Soul of man is larger than the sky,
Deeper than ocean or the abysmal dark
Of the unfathom'd centre. Like that Ark
Which in its sacred hold uplifted high,
O'er the drown'd hills, the human family,
And stock reserv'd of every living kind,
So, in the compass of the single mind,
The seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie,
That make all worlds. Great Poet, 't was
thy art

To know thyself, and in thyself to be
Whate'er love, hate, ambition, destiny,
Or the firm, fatal purpose of the heart,
Can make of Man. Yet thou wert still the
same,

Serene of thought, unhurt by thy own flame.

IDEALITY

THE vale of Tempe had in vain been fair, Green Ida never deem'd the nurse of Jove; Each fabled stream, beneath its covert grove,

Had idly murmur'd to the idle air;