* * * * *

=_412._= DIRGE FOR A SAILOR.

    Slow, slow! toll it low,
    As the sea-waves break and flow;
  With the same dull slumberous motion. 
  As his ancient mother, Ocean,
    Rocked him on, through storm and calm,
    From the iceberg to the palm: 
    So his drowsy ears may deem
    That the sound which breaks his dream
    Is the ever-moaning tide
    Washing on his vessel’s side.

    Slow, slow! as we go. 
    Swing his coffin to and fro;
  As of old the lusty billow
  Swayed him on his heaving pillow: 
    So that he may fancy still,
    Climbing up the watery hill,
    Plunging in the watery vale,
    With her wide-distended sail,
    His good ship securely stands
    Onward to the golden lands.

    Slow, slow! heave-a-ho!—­
    Lower him to the mould below;
  With the well-known sailor ballad,
  Lest he grow more cold and pallid
    At the thought that Ocean’s child,
    From his mother’s arms beguiled. 
    Must repose for countless years,
    Reft of all her briny tears,
    All the rights he owned by birth,
    In the dusty lap of earth.

* * * * *

=_William Allen Butler, 1825-._= (Manual, p. 521.)

From “Nothing to Wear.”

=_413._=

  O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day
  Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway,
  From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride,
  And the temples of Trade which tower on each side,
  To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt
  Their children have gathered, their city have built;
  Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey,
  Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair;
  Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt,
  Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt,
  Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair
  To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old,
  Half-starved, and half-naked, lie crouched from the cold. 
  See those skeleton limbs, and those frost-bitten feet,
  All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street;
  Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell
  From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor,
  Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell,
  As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door;
  Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare,
  Spoiled children of Fashion—­you’ve nothing to wear!

  And O, if perchance there should be a sphere,
  Where all is made right which so puzzles us here,

* * * * *

  Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense,
  Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence,
  Must be clothed for the life and the service above,
  With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love;
  O daughters of Earth! foolish virgins, beware! 
  Lest in that upper realm, you have nothing to wear!