(_By kind permission of the Author._)
Sons of ocean-girdled islands,
Where the southern billows sigh,
Wake! arise! the dread Bellona
Speeds her chariot through the sky;
Yea, the troubled star of danger
On Britannia shineth down--
Wake! arise! maintain her glory
And renown, and renown!
In the hour of Britain's peril
Shall we falter, while the fires
Still are glowing on our altars
From the ashes of our sires?
Ho! brave hearts, for Britain's honour,
For the lustre of her crown,
Wake! arise! maintain her glory
And renown, and renown!
Ye are children of a nation,
Ye are scions of the sires
That of old were in the vanguard
Of the world's wide empires!
With the spirit of your fathers,
With the fulness of their fame,
Wake! arise! maintain the honour
Of her name, of her name!
Long to Britain may "the crimson
Thread of kinship" bind our wings!--
Crimson thread that slowly slackens
As the newer race upsprings:
Sons of heroes, men of courage
That reverse could never tame,
Wake! arise! maintain the glory
Of her name, of her name!
See! the star of ancient Britain,
That hath never known decline,
By your valour lit up newly,
With a glow of fiercer shine,
O'er the burning sands of Afric,
With your loyalty aflame;
Once again maintain the glory
Of her name, of her name!
_GOOD NEWS._
Moostarchers and hair black as jet,
Tall and thin, with a sad kind of smile;
Soft-handed, soft-voiced, but well set--
A New Chum in manners and style.
That's him, sir--that's him; he's been here
A matter of nigh fourteen weeks,
Which I know by the rent in arrear,
Though a gent--you can tell when he speaks--
Came one night about eight, hired the room
Without board--it's four shillings, and cheap,
Though I say it, and me and the broom,
And good yaller soap for its keep;
And a widow with nine, which the twins--
Bless their 'arts--are that sturdy and bold
At their tricks soon as daylight begins,
Even now when it's perishing cold
O' mornings; and Betsy, my girl,
As answered the door, sir, for you,
She's so slow for her age, though a pearl
When there's any long job to get through;
And Bobby--but there, I forgot;
You'll pardon a mother, I know.
Well, for six weeks he paid up his shot,
And then I could see funds was low.
He dressed just as neat, but his coat
Got buttoned up nigher his chin,
And the scarf twisted round his poor throat
Missed a friend in the shape of a pin.
So the rent it run on, for, says I,
He's out of his luck, I can see,
And wants all his money to buy
His wittles (you brat, let that be).
Where he works I can't tell, but he's out
Every morning at nine from the house,
And he comes back at six or about,
And ups to his room like a mouse.
On Sundays the same, so I s'pose
He visits his friends on that day,
But where it may be that he goes
It's not in my knowledge to say.
He ain't well. I can tell by his walk;
He's as thin as a lath, and _that_ pale;
But I never could get him to talk,
So I can't rightly guess what may ail.
He never sends out for no beer,
He don't smoke, and as far as I see,
Beyond the few clothes he brought here,
And a desk, he's as hard up as me.
What! you bring him good news; I _am_ glad!
A fortune! ten thousand! Oh, la!
That's the physic for _you_, my poor lad.
This way, sir; it's not very far.
Mind that stair, please--the banister's broke.
Here's his door; hush, I'll knock. Ah! asleep.
Can't help it--you'd better be woke;
The news is too pretty to keep.
Ain't he sound, eh? Poor fellow, he's rocked
To rest in the Kingdom of Nod.
We'd better go in. It's not locked.
Follow me, sir. All dark. Oh! my God!