To-day the good ship sails!
Across the sparkling sea,
To-day the northern gales
Are blowing swift and free;
Speed, speed her distant way
To that far land of gold;
A richer prize we seek than they,
The Argonauts of old!

Who goes with us? Who quits the tiresome shore;
And sails where Fortune beckons him away;
Where in that marvellous land, in virgin ore,
The wealth of years is gathered in a day?
Here, toil and trouble are our portion still,
And still with want our weary work is paid,
Slowly the shillings drop into the till,

To cure man's jealously, that spleen , too common,
Our author chose me, a firm friend to Woman!
A willing doctor — But the downright fact is,
In this new way, I'm but ill turn'd for practice .

Yet hang it — in an age unform'd for daring ,
What is there in the breeches , but the wearing!
My outside's man , and I've seen many a true one .
Look — full as little likely — to undo one!

Mark, Ladies! and from this night's scene discover,
What art's I'll teach ye all, to hunt a lover;

I.

Ye sons of Adam lift your eyes,
Behold how free the Saviour dies,
To save your souls from hell!
There's your Creator, and your friend;
Believe and soon your fears shall end,
And you in glory dwell.

II.

Doubt not his word; his grace is free,
Believe he died and calls for thee,
And your poor souls shall live:
Can free salvation be deny'd,
When in his dying groans he cry'd,
" Father their sins forgive. "

III.

Believe and feel his boundless love;
It soon will bear your souls above,

If 'tis love to wish you near,
To tremble when the wind I hear,
Because at sea you floating rove:
If of you to dream at night,
To languish when you're out of sight,
If this be loving — then I love.

II:

If, when you're gone, to count each hour,
To ask of every tender power
That you may kind and faithful prove;
If, void of falshood and deceit,
I feel a pleasure now we meet,
If this be loving — then I love.

III.

We were together wandering I know not where,
A way of clouds that soft beneath our feet
Slid back in slow retreat
As we did onward fare
Lightly, silently, slowly through the golden air.

And each to each was rapturously dear,
Walking hand in hand, and save us two
Was naught in all that blue
Of liquid atmosphere;
Yet we thrilled as if unventured worlds lay waiting near.

In perfect comradeship, complete assent
Of hearts and minds and senses did we move,
Wholly in our own love
And eager talk intent,

I.

While the swift wings of time doth fly,
Rouse up my soul, stretch ev'ry thought;
This world with all its joys must die,
And ev'ry mortal scene is short.

II.

Soon must I leave this house of clay,
And instantaneous take my flight
To the bright realms of endless day,
Or down to everlasting night.

III.

O for a blessed Saviour nigh,
To help in that important hour,
To waft my soul above the sky,
By his almighty arm of pow'r!

IV.

But if no Christ how dark the day,

Well done! The statue, on its base of granite,
Stands in the sunlight, perfect and complete,
And like a visitor from some strange planet,
Curbing his steed beside the crowded street,
A million curious eyes already scan it,
And, with delighted gaze, its advent greet.

The end has crowned the work; the high endeavor,
And the long toil, with full success are blest;
And while the city stands, henceforth, forever,
Firm as to-day this noble form shall rest,
Nor shall the hand of Time or Violence sever

Strike! Oh, strike!
Already the strings of me quiver,
Vibrate,
With the imagining of your fingers. . . .
Strike!
Set free these aching sounds,
Strike harshly, wildly,
Loud —
O strong, beautiful —
Till the strings cry out,
Till the strings are torn with the fierceness of your hands' delight,
With the agony of their own music,
With the agony of their releasing —

Broken —
Still.

I.

Tell a poor soul that I may find;
Where is the Saviour of mankind?
And let me see his smiling face
That I may know, and sing his grace.

II.

Ye foll'wers of the heav'nly Lamb,
Who're bound to spread his bleeding fame,
O, if you can, I pray you tell

P ALLAS .

Pallas , the guardian of the slighted stage ,
Brings a complaint , that fires her into rage:
Stung to the soul , she cannot — will not, bear it,
But for the sex's honour must declare it.

O F fifty powder'd beaux ; here, wedgid , behind,
Not one fast friend can fading woman find!
They rail — they joke — nor their distaste conceal ;
Unconscious of your power , from head , to heel!

Cupid ! thou airy God of empty dreams!