Even there I heard a strange, wild strain Sound high above the modern clamor, Above the cries of greed and gain, The curbstone war, the auction's hammer; And swift, on Music's misty ways, It led, from all this strife for millions, To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. And as it stilled the multitude, And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, I saw the minstrel, where he stood At ease against a Doric pillar: One hand a droning organ played, The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned Like those of old) to lips that made The reeds give out that strain impassioned. A one-eyed Cyclops halted long In tattered cloak of army pattern, And Galatea joined the throng, A blowsy, apple-vending slattern; And bade the piper, with a shout, A newsboy and a peanut-girl Like little Fauns began to caper: His hair was all in tangled curl, Her tawny legs were bare and taper; And still the gathering larger grew, And gave its pence and crowded nigher, While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew His pipe, and struck the gamut higher. The best of days is foul enough From this world's fare to flee; Where's he that died o' yesterday? As the whoreson knave men laid away Not as we see Earth, sky, insensate forms, ourselves, Pity thy unconfined MORGAN OH, what a set of Vagabundos, Sailed with Morgan the Buccaneer! Out they voyaged from Port Royal Sunk beneath the gaping sea,; Dawn till dusk they stormed the castle, Port and Lisbon, tier on tier, Quaffed to heart's content, and toasted Harry Morgan the Buccaneer: Stripped the church and monastery, (Sire and brother bound anear), — Juanas, Lolas, Manuelitas, Cursing Morgan the Buccaneer. Lust and rapine, flame and slaughter, Forayed with the Welshman grim: "Take my pesos, spare my daughter! "Ha! ha!" roared that devil's limb, "These shall jingle in our pouches, She with us shall find good cheer." "Lash the graybeard till he crouches!" Shouted Morgan the Buccaneer. Out again through reef and breaker, While the Spaniard moaned his fate, Back they voyaged to Jamaica, Flush with doubloons, coins of eight, Crosses wrung from Popish varlets, Jewels torn from arm and ear, Jesu! how the Jews and harlots Welcomed Morgan the Buccaneer! ON A GREAT MAN WHOSE MIND IS CLOUDING THAT Sovereign thought obscured? That vision clear Dimmed in the shadow of the sable wing, And fainter grown the fine interpreting Which as an oracle was ours to hear! Nay, but the Gods reclaim not from the seer Their gift, although he ceases here to sing, And, like the antique sage, a covering Draws round his head, knowing what change is near. SI JEUNESSE SAVAIT! WHEN the veil from the eyes is lifted When the sailor to shore has drifted The wisdom of Life's late hour, When the hand has lost its power ? Is there a rarer being, Is there a fairer sphere Where the strong are not unseeing, They yield their due return; MORS BENEFICA GIVE me to die unwitting of the day, And stricken in Life's brave heat, with senses clear: Not swathed and couched until the lines appear Of Death's wan mask upon this withering clay, But as that old man eloquent made way From Earth, a nation's conclave hushed anear; Or as the chief whose fates, that he may hear |