Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale.
Urania.
Yes, child of suffering, thou mayst well be sure,
He who ordained the Sabbath loves the poor!—
And, when you stick on conversation's burrs,
Don't strew your pathway with those dreadful urs.
The Music-Grinders.
You think they are crusaders, sent
From some infernal clime,
To pluck the eyes of Sentiment,
And dock the tail of Rhyme,
To crack the voice of Melody,
And break the legs of Time.