So the gray Boatswain of 'Twenty-nine Piped to "The Boys" as they crossed the line; Round the cabin sat thirty guests, Babes of the nurse with a thousand breasts. ...
In candent ire the solar splendor flames; The foles, langueseent, pend from arid rames; His humid front the Give, anheling, wipes, And dreams of erring on ventiferous riper. ...
Yes, we knew we must lose him, - though friendship may claim To blend her green leaves with the laurels of fame; Though fondly, at parting, we call him our own, 'T is the whisper of love when the bugle has blown....
I hold a letter in my hand, - A flattering letter, more's the pity, - By some contriving junto planned, And signed per order of Committee. It touches every tenderest spot, - My patriotic predilections,...
I remember - why, yes! God bless me! and was it so long ago? I fear I'm growing forgetful, as old folks do, you know; It must have been in 'forty - I would say 'thirty-nine -...
The feeble sea-birds, blinded in the storms, On some tall lighthouse dash their little forms, And the rude granite scatters for their pains Those small deposits that were meant for brains....
It is a pity and a shame - alas! alas! I know it is, To tread the trodden grapes again, but so it has been, so it is; The purple vintage long is past, with ripened clusters bursting so...
The mountains glitter in the snow A thousand leagues asunder; Yet here, amid the banquet's glow, I hear their voice of thunder; Each giant's ice-bound goblet clinks; A flowing stream is summoned;...
What makes the Healing Art divine? The bitter drug we buy and sell, The brands that scorch, the blades that shine, The scars we leave, the "cures" we tell?
I Enchanter of Erin, whose magic has bound us, Thy wand for one moment we fondly would claim, Entranced while it summons the phantoms around us That blush into life at the sound of thy name. ...
Afar he sleeps whose name is graven here, Where loving hearts his early doom deplore; Youth, promise, virtue, all that made him dear Heaven lent, earth borrowed, sorrowing to restore. ...
The dirge is played, the throbbing death-peal rung, The sad-voiced requiem sung; On each white urn where memory dwells The wreath of rustling immortelles Our loving hands have hung,...