Sound, sound, the trump of Fame! 
Let WASHINGTON’S great name
  Ring through the world with loud applause;
  Ring through the world with loud applause;
Let every clime to Freedom dear,
Listen with a joyful ear. 
  With equal skill, and godlike power,
  He governed in the fearful hour
  Of horrid war; or guides, with ease,
  The happier times of honest peace.

Behold the chief who now commands,
Once more to serve his country, stands—­
  The rock on which the storm will beat,
  The rock on which the storm will beat;
But, armed in virtue firm and true,
His hopes are fixed on Heaven and you;
  When hope was sinking in dismay,
  And glooms obscured Columbia’s day,
  His steady mind, from changes free,
  Resolved on death or liberty.
                           Joseph Hopkinson.

THE SNOWDROP

Many, many welcomes,
February fair-maid! 
Ever as of old time,
Solitary firstling,
Coming in the cold time,
Prophet of the gay time,
Prophet of the May time,
Prophet of the roses,
Many, many welcomes,
February fair-maid!
              Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

THE OWL

When cats run home and light is come,
  And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
  And the whirring sail goes round,
  And the whirring sail goes round,
    Alone and warming his five wits,
    The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch,
  And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
  Twice or thrice his roundelay,
  Twice or thrice his roundelay;
    Alone and warming his five wits,
    The white owl in the belfry sits.
                        Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

A TRAGIC STORY

There lived a sage in days of yore,
And he a handsome pigtail wore;
But wondered much and sorrowed more
  Because it hung behind him.

He mused upon this curious case,
And swore he’d change the pigtail’s place,
And have it hanging at his face,
  Not dangling there behind him.

Said he, “The mystery I’ve found,—­
I’ll turn me round.”—­
He turned him round;
  But still it hung behind him.

Then round and round, and out and in,
All day the puzzled sage did spin;
In vain—­it mattered not a pin—­
  The pigtail hung behind him.

And right, and left, and round about,
And up, and down, and in, and out
He turned; but still the pigtail stout
  Hung steadily behind him.

And though his efforts never slack,
And though he twist, and twirl, and tack,
Alas! still faithful to his back
  The pigtail hangs behind him.
                        William M. Thackeray.