" Forever with the Lord!"
Amen, so let it be:
Life from the dead is in that word,
'T is immortality.

I hear at morn and even,
At noon and midnight hour,
The choral harmonies of heaven
Earth's Babel-tongues o'erpower:

Then, then I feel that he,
Remembered or forgot,
The Lord, is never far from me,
Though I perceive him not.

" Forever with the Lord!"
Father, if 'tis thy will,
The promise of that faithful word,
Even here to me fulfil.

Be thou at my right hand,
Then can I never fail;

Upon seeing two Sisters dancing.

What a sweet, engaging Air!
Show me two such lovely Fair:
How superior in the Round,
Not their Equals to be found;
See the very Graces move,
Ev'ry Step an ambush'd Love .
Add to Elegance of Ease,
That all-pow'rful Charm to please,
Such Perfection of the Mind,
Sprightly, charming, unconfin'd.
Hail to all the Sister Train,
Long may Health and Pleasure reign;
Thus with grateful, best Regard,
Greets your most respectful Bard.

Upon a recent Proof of Patriotic V IRTUE .

I.

" Get Money, " 'tis the worldly Mode,
No Matter for the Means; —
That's very true, cries honest Blunt ,
For so in troth it seems.

II.

Of this a flagrant damning Proof,
Ask but at Newgate — there
You'll find a conscientious Group ,
And eke their worthy M — I .

III.

There let the T — — IS groan in Chains,

One would think the dead were burying the living, not the living the dead,
The way we hold funerals ...
Bah! my heart sickens!

Please, when I die, know that I am very well able to care for myself,
And that the journey is mine, not yours:
Then take the refuse I left behind me
And quickly and quietly burn it up.

I.

Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground,
And no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded.

In no stately structures skilled,
What the temple we would build?
Now the massive kiln is risen —
Call it palace — call it prison;
View it well: from end to end
Narrow corridors extend, —
Long, and dark, and smothered aisles: —
Choke its earthly vaults with piles
Of the resinous yellow pine;
Now thrust in the fettered fire —
Hearken! how he stamps with ire,

A DIRGE

O I never felt so wretched, and things never looked so blue
Since the days I gulped the physic that my Granny used to brew;
For a friend in whom I trusted, entering my room last night,
Stole a bottleful of Heenzo from the desk whereon I write.

I am certain sure he did it (though he never would let on),
For all last week he had a cold and to-day his cough is gone;
Now I'm sick and sore and sorry, and I'm sad for friendship's sake

By the rock that's like a pillow
 And the homes of business fleas
Came the bottle merchant Billo
 With his old horse, Socrates.
Down the steep hill to the ferry
 Billo picked his zigzag way;
And I thought his face seemed very
 Thoughtful—for a Saturday.

On the kerb his cartwheel grated
 And the bottles grated too,
While he slewed his load and waited
 When my presence hove in view.
And methought I heard him mutter
 Friendly words of blasphemy,
And he spat into the gutter—
 And I spat in sympathy.

The day is hot, and Saturday, and sorry;
The time a little after three o'clock.
The pub is fourteen miles from Care-and-Worry,
Where toil-tired men are ploughing Evatt's block.
They brought their ploughs by spring-cart, dray and lorry—
They mostly come of Riverina stock.

Some are too old, and some found “nothin' doin'”
When trying to enlist, for, it appears,
The smart young doctor dropped on something new in
Their well-worn “works” or in their eyes or ears—
Because they'd stared too hard through drought and ruin,

We spat on the dirt and the flesh
Through two thousand years of soul-sickness â?¦
And so the poor have been with us,
And the good people have been vile lies, holy and stinking â?¦

Enough of this!
Glory is dirt converted, and magic is flesh transfigured â?¦

Not to the heavens we pray,
And not to a white-bearded God, tottering and old:
From no far world does majesty descend.

But when we pray,
We pray to our own selves:
To no stars outward, but to one heart inward:
The little Self on the top

With blustrous winds though storms awhile do rage
Insuing comfort, Muses do presage,
Likely to follow; for the stormes once past,
Likely calmes come to comfort us at last:
In winter sap within the roots as hiding,
Admits no thew of loy to trees betiding,
Making them drop their leaves, and comfortlesse

Stand for a time as if without redresse;
Perceiving of the spring though backe returning,
En which attendant doth require from morning,
Now will the sap recline with Ioy againe,
Cheerly will each tree leaves thereon retaine;