We gaze upon a restless sea, which quiets never, And read as on a changing, moving scroll, The nation’s living, cryptogamic soul, Which Death’s dark lantern lights and clears, Forever and forever! They are our own, these dead we look upon, though never Have we full guessed the good which passed away; To know what we were losing day by day, Would be, methinks, to live in tears, Forever and forever! Then listen, brothers, for my failing voice may never, Be heard again throughout our fatherland; And e’en the pen drops from my feeble hand, As my long journey swiftly nears, Forever and forever! List while I read to you the graven tale, which never May be all told by these poor lips of mine, For coming ages still add line to line, Till earth no longer heeds nor hears, Forever and forever! _Second Voice._ Speak, speak, thou dismal guest, With gloomy thoughts oppressed, Speak quick and give a rest, To those who hear thee: Much pleased we’ve read the lays, Writ in thy youthful days, Giving no stint of praise, Aiming to cheer thee. Proud of thy fame are we; Therefore most graciously, For what it’s worth will thee, “Our poet” christen: Long, long will live thy verse, As will, too, much that’s worse, And if thou wilt be terse, Brother, we’ll listen. _First Voice._ In the old colony days in London, the chief town of England, In the cellar which runs to and fro ’neath the Parliament building, With a pipe in his mouth and a match in his hand, made of sulphur, On a keg of dry powder was seated Mr. Guy Fawkes awaiting the signal. Above was King George with a sword in his hand at a table, Drinking green tea, which he always had made “with a stick,” While up by the urn, stood a beautiful Puritan maiden, With sweet, smiling eyes like the bloom of the bluebells in summer, Who opened her mouth, and with laughing lips uttered this question,-- “My liege, would you like just a little bit more of gunpowder?” Guy Fawkes was discovered and hung, and his body was cast in the Tiber, King George wasn’t blown up just then--but not many years after, His tea was the match which ignited the spark, and gave him some few more gunpowder. _Second Voice._ Tell us not in furlong numbers, What we know as well as you, Though you’ve got things mixed up “somewurs.” King George wasn’t Cromwell too. Life is short and time is fleeting, And we fear, if you intend To go on old tales repeating, We shall never reach an end. _First Voice._ [ABORIGINAL POETRY] Kajo, kajo, mudjekewiss, Jeebi ishkoodah jossakeed, Shinghé, shingebis shah shuh gah; Chibiabo bukadawin, _Wahonowin! Wahonowin!_ Totem totem ahkosewin, Minehaha, haha, haha, Ha ha, ha ha, ha ha, ha ha. [FAIR COLUMBIA.] _Second Voice._ Thank you, sir. _First Voice._