bes as the lily white,
Think of the fading funeral wreath,
The dying struggle, the sweat of death--
Think on the dismal death array,
When the pallid corse is consigned to clay!

O, ye who in quest of riches roam,
Reflect that ashes ye must become;
And the wealth ye win will brightly shine
When buried are ye and all your line;
For your many chests of much loved gold
You'll nothing obtain but a little mould!

DESIDERABILIA VITAE {13}

Give me the haunch of a buck to eat,
And to drink Madeira old;
And a gentle wife to rest with,
And in my arms to fold.

An Arabic book to study,
A gipsy pony to ride;
And a house to live in shaded by trees,
Near to a river's side.

With such good things around me,
And with good health withal,
Though I should live for a hundred years
For death I would not call.

SAINT JACOB

Saint Jacob he takes our blest Lord by the hand:
"I gladly would Christianize Garsia land."

"O how wilt thou bring it within Christian pale?
No ship hast thou here o'er the salt sea to sail."

"Thy power, O Lord, is so wondrously great,
Full quickly a ship Thou for me canst create."

"Saint Jacob, hie down to the salt ocean strand,
There standeth so little a stone by the land."

Saint Jacob he taketh a book in his hand,
And down he proceeds to the salt ocean strand.

Saint Jacob he made o'er the stone the cross-mark,
From the land straight it floated, as though 'twere a bark.

It rode o'er the billows so rapid and free,
Right, right towards Garsia promontoree.

So rapid the stone to glide thither began,
A hundred miles space in one short hour it ran.

In comes a foot-boy, to the King doffs his bonnet:
"Here cometh a stone, and a man sits upon it."

A woman rushed in, in her eyes wonder shone:
"Here cometh a man, and he sits on a stone."

King Garsia taketh his axe in his hand,
And down he proceeds to the salt ocean strand.

"Now hear thou, Saint Jacob, I say unto thee,
What hast thou in this land, in this land here with me?"

"Unto thee I am come to this land 'cross the brine,
Because that my Maker is greater than thine."

"O how can thy Maker be greater than mine?
Mine drinks every day the brown mead and the wine."

"O then my Creator is greater than thine,
For mine can the water convert into wine.

"My Maker can turn the black mould into bread,
Can give life back to them who long, long have been dead."

"If thou canst restore me my dearly love