I have seized the sceptre and torn the palm
From the wind on his bauble throne.

My pipe in his face I boldly puff

Till his rage my soul inspires.

And I draw him down and his cries I drown

In the glee of a billion fires!

Oh, I am king of the land and sea,

King of the field and foam,

King of the mountain, hill, and lea,
King of the hearth and home!

Heir of the lordly limbs and leaves, —

Now a whistle and now a moan,

And my sires, up-garnered in mammoth sheaves,
On the floors of the world were strown.
Yet up through the starless roofs I come,
And the sentry breezes quail;

And the furnace glow is the flag I throw
In the teeth of the howling gale!

Oh, I am king of the land and sea,
King of the field and foam,

KING COAL TO UNCLE SAM.

King of the mountain, vale, and lea,
King of the hearth and home!

Tears for the straining sail and sheet,

Now a whistle and now a moan,
As the waves ride over the fated fleet
At the whim of the wild wind blown.
But cheers for the million-muscled oars
That I make from drops of rain;
For as coal I am king, and the song I sing
Is a dirge to the fleet of Spain!

Oh, I am king of the land and sea,

King of the field and foam,

King of the mountain, hill, and lea,
King of the hearth and home!

- E. F. Burns.

The Race of the Oregon.

LIGHTS out! And a prow turned towards the

South,

And a canvas hiding each cannon's mouth,
And a ship like a silent ghost released
Is seeking her sister ships in the East.

A rush of water, a foaming trail,
An ocean hound in a coat of mail,
A deck long-lined with the lines of fate,
She roars good-by at the Golden Gate.

On! On! Alone without gong or bell,
But a burning fire like the fire of hell,
Till the lookout starts as his glasses show
The white cathedral of Callao.

A moment's halt 'neath the slender spire;
Food, food for the men and food for the fire.
Then out to the sea to rest no more

Till her keel is grounded on Chile's shore.

South! South! God guard through the unknown wave

Where chart nor compass may help or save,

THE RACE OF THE OREGON.

Where the hissing wraiths of the sea abide
And few may pass through the stormy tide.

North! North! For a harbor far away,
For another breath in the burning day;
For a moment's shelter from speed and pain,
And a prow to the tropic sea again.

Home! Home! With the mother fleet to

sleep

Till the call shall rise o'er the awful deep; And the bell shall clang for the battle there, And the voice of guns is the voice of prayer!

One more to the songs of the bold and free,
When your children gather about your knee;
When the Goths and Vandals come down in
might

As they came to the walls of Rome one night;
When the lordly William of Deloraine
Shall ride by the Scottish lake again;
When the Hessian spectres shall flit in air
As Washington crosses the Delaware;
When the eyes of babes shall be closed in
dread

As the story of Paul Revere is read:

When your boys shall ask what the guns are

for,

Then tell them the tale of the Spanish war, And the breathless millions that looked upon The matchless race of the Oregon.

-John James Meehan.