V

Industrious pirate! see him sweep The lonely bosom of the deep, And daily the horizon scan From Hatteras or Matapan. Be sure, before that pirate’s old, He will have made a pot of gold, And will retire from all his labours And be respected by his neighbours. You also scan your life’s horizon For all that you can clap your eyes on.

A MARTIAL ELEGY FOR SOME LEAD SOLDIERS

For certain soldiers lately dead Our reverent dirge shall here be said. Them, when their martial leader called, No dread preparative appalled; But leaden-hearted, leaden-heeled, I marked them steadfast in the field. Death grimly sided with the foe, And smote each leaden hero low. Proudly they perished one by one: The dread Pea-cannon’s work was done! O not for them the tears we shed, Consigned to their congenial lead; But while unmoved their sleep they take, We mourn for their dear Captain’s sake, For their dear Captain, who shall smart Both in his pocket and his heart, Who saw his heroes shed their gore, And lacked a shilling to buy more!

THE GRAVER THE PEN: OR, SCENES FROM NATURE, WITH APPROPRIATE VERSES

I PROEM

Unlike the common run of men, I wield a double power to please, And use the GRAVER and the PEN With equal aptitude and ease.

I move with that illustrious crew, The ambidextrous Kings of Art; And every mortal thing I do Brings ringing money in the mart.

Hence, in the morning hour, the mead, The forest and the stream perceive Me wandering as the muses lead— Or back returning in the eve.

Two muses like two maiden aunts, The engraving and the singing muse, Follow, through all my favourite haunts, My devious traces in the dews.

To guide and cheer me, each attends; Each speeds my rapid task along; One to my cuts her ardour lends, One breathes her magic in my song.

[Picture: Strange building]

II THE PRECARIOUS MILL

Alone above the stream it stands, Above the iron hill, The topsy-turvy, tumble-down, Yet habitable mill.

Still as the ringing saws advance To slice the humming deal, All day the pallid miller hears The thunder of the wheel.

He hears the river plunge and roar As roars the angry mob; He feels the solid building quake, The trusty timbers throb.

All night beside the fire he cowers: He hears the rafters jar: O why is he not in a proper house As decent people are!

The floors are all aslant, he sees, The doors are all a-jam; And from the hook above his head All crooked swings the ham.

‘Alas,’ he cries and shakes his head, ‘I see by every sign, There soon all be the deuce to pay, With this estate of mine.’

[Picture: Pine trees]

III THE DISPUTATIOUS PINES

The first pine to the second said: ‘My leaves are black, my branches red; I stand upon this moor of mine, A hoar, unconquerable pine.’

The second sniffed and answered: ‘Pooh! I am as good a pine as you.’

‘Discourteous tree,’ the first replied, ‘The tempest in my boughs had cried, The hunter slumbered in my shade, A hundred years ere you were made.’

The second smiled as he returned: ‘I shall be here when you are burned.’

So far dissension ruled the pair, Each turned on each a frowning air, When flickering from the bank anigh, A flight of martens met their eye. Sometime their course they watched; and then— They nodded off to sleep again.

[Picture: Three tramps]

IV THE TRAMPS

Now long enough had day endured, Or King Apollo Palinured, Seaward he steers his panting team, And casts on earth his latest gleam.

But see! the Tramps with jaded eye Their destined provinces espy. Long through the hills their way they took, Long camped beside the mountain brook; ’Tis over; now with rising hope They pause upon the downward slope, And as their aching bones they rest, Their anxious captain scans the west.

So paused Alaric on the Alps And ciphered up the Roman scalps.

[Picture: Man by river]

V THE FOOLHARDY GEOGRAPHER

The howling desert miles around, The tinkling brook the only sound— Wearied with all his toils and feats, The traveller dines on potted meats; On potted meats and princely wines, Not wisely but too well he dines.

The brindled Tiger loud may roar, High may the hovering Vulture soar; Alas! regardless of them all, Soon shall the empurpled glutton sprawl— Soon, in the desert’s hushed repose, Shall trumpet tidings through his nose! Alack, unwise! that nasal song Shall be the Ounce’s dinner-gong!

A blemish in the cut appears; Alas! it cost both blood and tears. The glancing graver swerved aside, Fast flowed the artist’s vital tide! And now the apologetic bard Demands indulgence for his pard!

[Picture: Man on bridge]

VI THE ANGLER AND THE CLOWN

The echoing bridge you here may see, The pouring lynn, the waving tree, The eager angler fresh from town— Above, the contumelious clown. The angler plies his line and rod, The clodpole stands with many a nod,— With many a nod and many a grin, He sees him cast his engine in.

‘What have you caught?’ the peasant cries.

‘Nothing as yet,’ the Fool replies.