Behold upon the swelling seas
With streaming pennants gay,
Our gallant ship invites the waves,
While glory leads the way.

And a-cruising we will go — oho, oho, oho!
And a-cruising we will go — oho, oho, oho!
And a-cruising we will go — o — — oho,
And a-cruising we will go!

You beauteous maids, your smiles bestow,
For if you prove unkind,
How can we hope to beat the foe?
We leave our hearts behind.

When a-cruising we will go — —

See Hardy's flag once more display'd,
Upon the deck he stands;

An Epitaph of

the Death of Nicholas Grimald.

Behold this fleeting world how all things fade,
How everything doth pass and wear away,
Each state of life, by common course and trade,
Abides no time, but hath a passing day.
For look as life, that pleasant dame, hath brought
The pleasant years and days of lustiness,
So death our foe consumeth all to nought,
Envying these, with dart doth us oppress,
And that which is the greatest grief of all,
The greedy gripe doth no estate respect,
But where he comes he makes them down to fall;

Behold the mighty Dinosaur,
Famous in prehistoric lore,
Not only for his weight and strength
But for his intellectual length.
You will observe by these remains
The creature had two sets of brains —
One in his head (the usual place),
The other at his spinal base.
Thus he could reason a priori
As well as a posteriori .
No problem bothered him a bit:
He made both head and tail of it.
So wise he was, so wise and solemn,
Each thought filled just a spinal column.
If one brain found the pressure strong
It passed a few ideas along;

Behold, the meads are green again,
The orchard-bloom is seen again,
Of sky and stream the mien again
Is mild, is bright!
Now should each heart that loves obtain
Its own delight.

But I will say no ill of Love,
However slight my guerdon prove:
Repining doth not me behove:
And yet--to know
How lightly she I fain would move
Might bliss bestow!

There are who hold my folly great,
Because with little hope I wait;
But one old saw doth animate
And me assure:
Their hearts are high, their might is great,
Who will endure.

Behould the father is His daughter's sonne,
The bird that built the nest is hatchd therein,
The old of yeres an hower hath not outrunne,
Eternall life to live doth nowe beginn,
The Worde is dumm, the Mirth of heaven doth weepe,
Mighte feeble is, and Force doth fayntely creepe.

O dyinge soules! behould your living springe!
O dazeled eyes! behould your sunne of grace!

Behold, love, thy power how she despiseth!
My great pain how little she regardeth!
The holy oath, whereof she taketh no cure,
Broken she hath; and yet she bideth sure
Right at her ease and little she dreadeth.
Weaponed thou art, and she unarmed sitteth;
To the disdainful her life she leadeth,
To me spiteful without cause or measure,
Behold, love.

I am in hold: if pity thee moveth,
Go bend thy bow, that stony hearts breaketh,
And with some stroke revenge the displeasure
Of thee and him, that sorrow doth endure,

Behold her Seven Hills loom white
Once more as marble-builded Rome.
Her marts teem with a touch of home
And music fills her halls at night;
Her streets flow populous, and light
Floods every happy, hopeful face;
The wheel of fortune whirls apace
And old-time fare and dare hold sway.
Farewell the blackened, toppling wall,
The bent steel gird, the sombre pall —
Farewell forever, let us pray;
Farewell, forever and a day!

Behold from sluggish winter's arm
Spring lifts herself again:
Naked before the steel-cold air
She shivers as in pain;
Look, Lalage, is that a tear
In the sun's eye which yet shines clear?

From beds of snow the flowers awake
Lifting in deep amaze
To heaven their eager eyes: but yet
More in that wistful gaze
Than wonder lies: sure trembles there,
O Lalage, some memory fair,

Some dream which 'neath the coverlet white
Of winter snow they dreamed,
Some sleeping sight of dewy dawns
And summer suns that gleamed,

" BEHOLD another singer! " Criton said,
And sneered, and in his sneering turned the leaf:
" Who reads the poets now? They are past and dead:
Give me for their vain work unrhymed relief. "
A laugh went round. Meanwhile the last ripe sheaf
Of corn was garnered, and the summer birds
Stilled their dear notes, while autumn's voice of grief
Rang through the fields, and wept the gathered herds.
Then in despair men murmured: " Is this all, —
To fade and die within this narrow ring?
Where are the singers, with their hearts aflame,

Behold a woman!
She looks out from her Quaker-cap — her face is clearer and more beautiful than the sky.
She sits in an arm-chair, under the shaded porch of the farmhouse,
The sun just shines on her old white head.

Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen:
Her grandsons raised the flax and her granddaughters spun it with the distaff and wheel.

The melodious character of the earth,
The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go, and does not wish to go.
The justified mother of men.