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You admire good Latin verses, Tickler! Here are some-by that accomplished scholar, the Rev. G. J. A. Drake, who is willing they should appear in our pages, in which are sometimes set a few rare classical gems. Tis thus he does honour to the Hemans. Let me recite the lovely original

THE FREE'D BIRD.

BY MRS HEMANS.

Return, return, my Bird!

I have dress'd thy cage with flowers, 'Tis lovely as a violet bank

In the heart of forest bowers.

"I am free, I am free, I return no more!
The weary time of the cage is o'er!
Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high,
The sky is around me, the blue bright sky!

"The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear,
With their glowing heath-flowers and bounding deer;
I see the waves flash on the sunny shore-

I am free, I am free-I return no more!"

Alas, alas, my Bird!

Why seek'st thou to be free?

Wer't thou not blest in thy little bower,

When thy song breathed nought but glee?

"Did my song of the summer breathe nought but glee?
Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee?
-O! hadst thou known its deep meaning well,
It had tales of a burning heart to tell!

"From a dream of the forest that music sprang,
Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang;
And its dying fall, when it sooth'd thee best,
Sigh'd for wild flowers and a leafy nest."

Was it with thee thus, my Bird ?
Yet thine eye flash'd clear and bright!
I have seen the glance of sudden joy
In its quick and dewy light.

It flash'd with the fire of a tameless race,
With the soul of the wild wood, my native place!
With the spirit that panted through heaven to soar-
Woo me not back-I return no more!

"My home is high, amidst rocking trees,
My kindred things are the star and the breeze,
And the fount uncheck'd in its lonely play,
And the odours that wander afar, away!"

Farewell, farewell, then, Bird!

I have call'd on spirits gone,

And it may be they joy'd like thee to part,
Like thee, that wert all my own!

"If they were captives, and pined like me,

Though love may guard them, they joy'd to be free!
They sprang from the earth with a burst of power,
To the strength of their wings, to their triumph's hour !

"Call them not back when the chain is riven,
When the way of the pinion is all through heaven!
Farewell! With my song through the clouds I soar,
I pierce the blue skies-I am Earth's no more!"

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Indomitæ micuêre superbo lumine gentis

Silvæ animâ indomitæ, silvæ ubi nata fui!
Per spatia ampla poli cupidissima solvere pennas-
Carpere, non unquam restituenda, viam !

Est domus arboreæ nutanti in vertice frondis,
Sunt germana animæ sidus et aura meæ ;
Fonsque procul solâ qui ludere gaudet arenâ—
Undique qui circà dulcè vagatur odor.

Jam vale, dilecta Avis! evocavi
Forsitan lætos comites abire,

Te velut, sperans retinere amoris

Vincula cordi.

Languida si mecum membra et captiva trahebant
Quamvis Amor custos-desit Amoris opus.

Lætitiâ exiliunt vinclis, terrasque relinquunt,
Viribus alatis, Io triumphe! canunt.

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Nec revoca sublata-novam nec finge catenam Cobulvar 9 Per spatium cæli carpit ut ala viam est hardt «Jamque vale ascendo per nubila carmine gaudens,⠀ That 1.1{* vÆtheris hic subeo cærula Terra, vale lasi 981-ilism & 165 154 ex uloim, roligt 907 avgi{}/ mage a turbed to sne zd ¿TICKLER, 2018 / 30 991082 Didepas Worthy of Tibullus, or→Vincent Bourne'd silusiu galmue NORTH. oly 9ail : oq 1991. zeapers of bad i fra,zabies& Great things remain to be said and sung, Timothy, of the sea.

icd- to zarantie mooq & TICKLERATO (99- $10M 19791 İ 16 Before the Reading Public be seasick and 696 to gull... #5561-1890 91 to 99NORTH. "Va? noitega su bus tatu 120

A mighty Marine Poem is a desideratum in the literature of the world. and to edqcwir (5760 901 TICKLER, JOLung gʊ79 of par

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Do you mean a long poem by a marine ? and if so, foot of horse-marine? des moit gud 8.19nO NORTH (401! #91;& ̧ÀÌAN

Don't be silly, Tickler. There is no humour in mere nonsense.
X58 46--120 16 5 5 94 TICKLER, 1979 DØResulfat bist,7
Plagiary! 9ft to zravani udh dien begrødvejte,-bio & stage iqqs a

NORTH.

Falconer's Shipwreck is a most ingenious performance-and affecting, not only in itself, there being in it not a few passages of the simplest human pathetic, but for the sake of the seaman who composed it on many a midnight watch, and perished in the Apollo frigate when she went down with all her crew far far at sea. Yet 'tis little read, I suspect; and has inspired no kindred but superior strain, through more than half a century—— brow all 978 ebow ti to TICKLERIS vnfasso Heel fr Seamen have seldom time to write long poems, Kit; and then their education is what it ought to be, practical, not poetical

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Their whole life is poetry, Timothy

TICKLER. -104 16 μdibeli prov- 2.1 Interspersed with some severe prose, Kit, as you would know, my man, had you ever been at the mast-head on a look-out for a lee-shore in a squally day when the master had lost his reckoning-and

tez stoled male' s úl#NORth, & ui odos 1197 207 Now A Hold your tongue. You are murdering the King's English. If our William were to overhear you, or Basil Hall, or Marryatt, or Glascock, you would get a dozen,” you land-lubber, for your lingo, which is about as like the true sea-tongue, Timothy, as the paw of a tortoise-shell cat that of a white bear.

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TICKLER.

The technical language of no art should ever be admitted into p

“NORTH.

poetry.

Sumph How else could a poet shew a ship sailing on whitey brown Top paper, as on the blue-green sea? 560z5q að of ass (0% of

TICKLER.

By flashing her into life and motion by the creative energy of general deadsupe od epuis aforage bin 20ar

terms.

NORTH.

Good, my dear Tickler. Much may be so done-witness Campbell's glorious Mariners of England. And indeed a ship is in the imagination of the merest squab a thing so majestical, that she is is devil himself,only speak of her and she appears sob soms oil 1980s 2013 bavom side? 9 dTICKLER,q ylldith lita 29mså gly! Good, my dear Kit I owe you one. 9d1 992 vern the goz yilova hat and vino abund NORTHjulqonnq aradasal at last, But what then? Cannot she bear being spoken of, a aye, in the loftiest flights of song, in the language sailors love, the

dear to

langung as Britannia

as she sits enthroned on the cliffs of Albion, and who,

the moon, shall rule the waves?eurd egter boyband 6 q969 outh 09wobs e tady 60 TICKLÈR. NUIntuo la zbúar IRI

Hear hear heard and ads „jdsind quitasid sit

obey

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Dryden has been jeered by surly Sam for the use of some technical nautical terms in one of this poems and justly-fors never was there such abuse such laughable, ignorance, as therein exhibited by that illustrious Cockney. Mr Place, the tailor, might as well call a marlin-spike a needle. Now, sheer ignorance, on whatever subject, by sea or land, but especially by sea, assuming uncalled-for the offices of rarest knowledge, is disgusting even in a great poet like "glorious John. Besides, even had he employed such terms aright, they had been absurd, balting out suddenly in a single stanza, and never more seen or heard of, in a poem stinking of shore instead of smelling of sea. But let a poet who knows and feels the grandeur of the character and occupation and appearance of the ocean-roamers, speak of them in calm or storm, in battle or on the blocks, in language ennobled and consecrated to every patriot's soul by the naval triumphs of England; let him speak of a man of wars in a styles that shews he knows a frigate from a three-decker, a cutter from a schooner, a brig from a ship, and the captain's gig from a quaker's whiskey, and Neptune shall be to him Apollo, the Nereids the Muses, and every line shall be a line of light-all a-dazzle with appropriate words, surcharged with the imagery of the great deep.

TICKLER.

Hear! hear! Jeankrotroq zmoinsgn from 8 et Avenuqule – rotu do a und rzolamiz adi to angsaang W^NORTH. in qusa 1991; lived

No technical terms of art in poetry? O sumph of sumphs! why sayest thou so 2 What I not of the art that lays its hand on the ocean's mane, and em. boldens man to scorn the monster in his foamy wrath, as if he were a lamb lying asleep on the sunny brae! But I speak of the science of the sea; and its language is in itself magnificent, many of its words are like winds and waves imitative harmony of sound and motion, and light and gloom -Isoito TICKLER 9d of igno Stop-stop-stop-harmony of light and gloom!

Yes-you blockhead. But

NORTHOM[170904 ai stil slow

at, čiji vond binow poy 26 TICKLER819792 98oz diz besp What do you mean, six, by Bur? basil-Jeni silt in 195d 1979 -bus-ggiao√991 NORTH. bad nisam sit now yeb Would you weigh anchor in a poem, with a 'ship before your eyes, as if you were putting the mail-coach in motion from the inn at Torsonce? Is starboard a mean word? or larboard or beating to windward? or drifting to leeward?, or eating ye out of the wind?bus nov “u9sob

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i ma foderazioviot 6 to WBTICKLER, ZdjomiTongaat-692, and The wild ass is said, finely, to devour the wind

NORTH.IT

Well, gulp awayOr the wind's eye ?or-butanol is dad

TICKLER.

What the devil, sir, do you, can you mean, by eternally using the word BUT? Do you mean to be personal ? * 692 49972-9uld 9dt ud 22 3J9g4j

NORTH

My dear Timothy lend me your ears here are some verses that give all such shallow and senseless critics the squabash.

ИГЯОР

dquiso zzumiv-TUE FORGING OF THE ANCHORDT 189b ym „broid wizsuni qut of ei nude s boobai bat. busign to 19mm egofoiz Come, see the Dolphin's Anchor forg'd; tis at a white heat now you The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow, The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound; And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round,yat About All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare;

Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

1 sub 996uusi silt 97ol enolice sysuguol sai ni,gone to The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below; And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throefne 2 It rises, roars, rends all outright-O, Vulcan, what a glow!

'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright; the high sun shines not so !

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show;
The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row
Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe;

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow
Sinks on the anvil-all about, the faces fiery grow-

"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out-leap out;" bang, bang, the sledges go: Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low;

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow;

The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders strow
The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow;
And thick and loud, the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!
Let's forge a goodly Anchor; a Bower, thick and broad:
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode;
And I see the good Ship riding, all in a perilous road,
The low reef roaring on her lee; the roll of ocean pour'd

From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board;

The bulwarks down; the rudder gone; the boats stove at the chains;
But courage still, brave mariners-the Bower yet remains,
And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky high,
Then moves his head, as though he said, " Fear nothing-here am I!"

Swing in your strokes in order; let foot and hand keep time,
Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime;
But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burthen be,
The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal craftsmen we!
Strike in, strike in-the sparks begin to dull their rustling red;
Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped:
Our Anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array,'
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;
Our Anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here,

For the Yeo-heave-o', and the Heave-away, and the sighing seaman's cheer;
When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and home;
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.

In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last;

A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast.

O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me,

What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!
O deep Sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou?
The hoary monster's palaces! methinks what joy 'twere now
To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the whales,
And feel the churn'd sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails!
Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea unicorn,
And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn;
To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn;

And for the ghastly-grinning shark to laugh his jaws to scorn;
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles
He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallow'd miles;
Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls;
Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished shoals
Of his back-browsing ocean-calves; or, haply in a cove,
Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love,
To find the long-hair'd mermaidens; or, hard by icy lands,
To wrestle with the Sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands.

O broad-armed Fisher of the Deep, whose sports can equal thine?
The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line;
And night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,
Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play-
But shamer of our little sports! forgive the name I gave-
A fisher's joy is to destroy-thine office is to save.

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