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And now 'twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute,
That makes the heavens be mute.
It ceased ; yet still the sails made on
A pleasant noise till noon-
In the leafy month of June,
Singeth a quiet tune.
Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell
To thee, thou wedding guest ;
Both man and bird and beast :
All things both great and small ;
A colloquial Poem.
Were perfect in our kind! And why despise
Is he obstinate?
hark, Jacob, dost thou hear that horn ? Woe to the young posterity of Pork ! Their enemy's at hand.
Again. Thou say'st The pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him! Those
eyes have taught the lover flattery. His face,-nay, Jacob, Jacob, were it fair To judge a lady in her dishabille ? Fancy it drest, and with saltpetre rouged. Behold his tail, my friend ; with curls like that The wanton hop marries her stately spouse : So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love. And what is beauty, but the aptitude
Of parts harmonious? give thy fancy scope,
The last charge :—he lives
But let me rest On better ground the unanswerable defence. The pig is a philosopher, who knows No prejudice. Dirt ? Jacob,—what is dirt ? If matter, why the delicate dish that tempts An o'ergorged epicure to the last morsel That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more. If matter be not, but, as sages say, Spirit is all, and all things visible Are one, the infinitely modified ; Think, Jacob, what that pig is, and the mire Wherein he stands knee-deep.
And there! that breeze Pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile
That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd field Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.
Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the
Orient, remained at his post, in the battle of the Nile, after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned. He perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled ;
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A proud though childlike form.
The flames rolled on he would not go,
Without his father's word;
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud, “Say, father, say,
If yet my task is done !"
Unconscious of his son.
“Speak, father!” once again he cried,
“If I may yet be gone !
And fast the flames rollid on.
And in his waving hair,
In still yet brave despair.
"My father, must I stay ?”
The wreathing fires made way.
They caught the flag on high,
Like banners in the sky.
The boy,-oh, where was he?
With fragments strew'd the sea !
That well had borne their part;
Was that young and faithful heart !