Pet poems/ page 4 of 134 /
During a tempest encountered homeward-bound from the Mediterranean, a grizzled petty-officer, one of the two captains of the forecastle, dying at night in his hammock, swung in the sick-bay under the tiered gun-decks of the British Dreadnought, 98, wandering in his mind, though with glimpses of sanity, and starting up at whiles, sings by snatches his good-bye and last injunctions to two messmates, his watchers, one of whom fans the fevered tar with the flap of his old sou'-wester
And thou art gone, my poor dumb friend! thy troubles all are past;A faithful friend thou wert indeed, e'en to the very last!And thou wert the prop of my house, my children's pride and pet,--Who now will help to free me from this weary load of debt?
Here, single-handed, in the bush I battled on for years,My heart sometimes buoyed up with hope, sometimes bowed down with fears
Here, where precipitate Spring with one light boundInto hot Summer's lusty arms expires;And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them,And softer sighs, that know not what they want;Under a wall, beneath an orange-treeWhose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier onesOf sights in Fiesole right up above,While I was gazing a few paces offAt what they seemed to show me with their nods,Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots,A gentle maid came down the garden-stepsAnd gathered the pure treasure in her lap