Gray swept the angry waves
O'er the gallant and the true,
Rolled high in mounded graves
O'er the stately frigate's crew —
Over cannon, over deck,
Over all that ghastly wreck, —
When the Cumberland went down.

Such a roar the waters rent
As though a giant died,
When the wailing billows went
Above those heroes tried;
And the sheeted foam leaped high,
Like white ghosts against the sky, —
As the Cumberland went down.

O shrieking waves that gushed
Above that loyal band,
Your cold, cold burial rushed

D E gray owl sing fum de chimbly top:
" Who — who — is — you-oo? "
En I say: " Good Lawd, hit 's des po' me,
En I ain't quite ready fer de Jasper Sea;
I 'm po' en sinful, en you 'lowed I 'd be;
Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morror! "

De gray owl sing fum de cypress tree:
" Who — who — is — you-oo? "
En I say: " Good Lawd, ef you look you 'll see
Hit ain't nobody but des po' me,
En I like ter stay 'twell my time is free;
Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morror! "

1. The gray hills taught me patience, The waters taught me prayer; The
2. The calm skies made me quiet, The high stars made me still; The
flight of birds unfolded The marvel of thy care.
bolts of thunder taught me The lightning of thy will!

3. Thy soul is on the tempest,
Thy courage rides the air!
Through heaven or hell I'll follow;
I must, and so I dare!

A GRAVE seems only six feet deep
And three feet wide,
Viewed with the calculating eye
Of one outside.

But when fast bound in the chill loam
For that strange sleep,
Who knows how wide its realm may be?
Its depths, how deep?

A grave physician, used to write for fees,
And spoil no paper, but with recipes,
Is now turned poet, rails against all wit,
Except that little found among the great;
As if he thought true wit and sense were tied
To men in place, like avarice, or pride.
But in their praise, so like a quack he talks,
You'd swear he wanted for his Christmas-box.
With mangled names old stories he pollutes,
And to the present time past actions suits;
Amazed we find, in ev'ry page he writes,
Members of Parliament with Arthur's knights.

1.

The grave House of Commons, by hook or by crook,
Resolved to root out both the pope and the duke;
But let 'em move, let 'em vote, let 'em pass what they will,
The bishops, the bishops will throw out the bill.

2.

There were Harbord and Winnington, Hampden and Birch
Did verily think to establish the church;
But now they have found it is past all their skill,
For the bishops, the bishops have thrown out the bill.

Grasshopper thrice-happy! who
Sipping the cool morning dew,
Queen-like chirpest all the day
Seated on some verdant spray;
Thine is all what ere earth brings,
Or the howrs with laden wings;
Thee, the Ploughman calls his Joy,
'Cause thou nothing dost destroy:
Thou by all art honour'd; All
Thee the Springs sweet Prophet call;
By the Muses thou admir'd,
By Apollo art inspir'd,
Agelesse, ever singing, good,
Without passion, flesh or blood;
Oh how near thy happy state
Comes the Gods to imitate!

Grasshopper Green is a comical chap;
He lives on the best of fare.
Bright little trousers, jacket, and cap,
These are his summer wear.
Out in the meadow he loves to go,
Playing away in the sun;
It's hopperty, skipperty, high and low,
Summer's the time for fun.

Grasshopper Green has a quaint little house;
It's under the hedge so gay.
Grandmother Spider, as still as a mouse,
Watches him over the way.
Gladly he's calling the children, I know,
Out in the beautiful sun;
It's hopperty, skipperty, high and low,

The grass so little has to do,—
A sphere of simple green,
With only butterflies to brood,
And bees to entertain,

And stir all day to pretty tunes
The breezes fetch along,
And hold the sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls,
And make itself so fine,—
A duchess were too common
For such a noticing.

And even when it dies, to pass
In odors so divine,
As lowly spices gone to sleep,
Or amulets of pine.

And then to dwell in sovereign barns,

The grass fire swooped like a red wolf pack,
On the wings of a west wind dry.
Its red race left the scorched plains black
'Neath a sullen, smoky sky.

And the wagon boss of the Bar-Y-Cross
He rallied his roisterous crew.
" Boys, shoot some steers, and hang the loss,
An' split them smack in two! "

They split six steers, with the blood side down,
They dragged them to and fro.
But the grass fire laughed like a demon clown
At a devil's three-ringed show.

The flame draft drove like a wind from hell,