Translation From The Gull Language.

Scripta manet.     'Twas graved on the Stone of Destiny,[1]     In letters four and letters three;     And ne'er did the King of the Gulls go by     But those awful letters scared his eye;     For he knew that a Prophet Voice had said,     "As long as those words by man were read,     "The ancient race of the Gulls should ne'er     "One hour of peace or plenty share."     But years on years successive flew,     And the letters still more legible grew,--     At top, a T, an H, an E,     And underneath, D. E. B. T.     Some thought them Hebrew,--such as Jews     More skilled in Scrip than Scripture use;     While some surmised 'twas an ancient way     Of keeping accounts, (well known in the day     Of the famed Didlerius Jeremias,     Who had thereto a wonderful bias,)     And proved in books most learnedly boring,     'Twas called the Pontick way of scoring.     Howe'er this be there never were yet     Seven letters of the alphabet,     That 'twixt them formed so grim a spell,     Or scared a Land of Gulls so well,     As did this awful riddle-me-ree     Of T. H. E. D. E. B. T.                  *             *             *             *             *     Hark!--it is struggling Freedom's cry;     "Help, help, ye nations, or I die;     "'Tis Freedom's fight and on the field     "Where I expire your doom is sealed."     The Gull-King hears the awakening call,     He hath summoned his Peers and Patriots all,     And he asks. "Ye noble Gulls, shall we     "Stand basely by at the fall of the Free,     "Nor utter a curse nor deal a blow?"     And they answer with voice of thunder, "No."     Out fly their flashing swords in the air!--     But,--why do they rest suspended there?     What sudden blight, what baleful charm,     Hath chilled each eye and checkt each arm?     Alas! some withering hand hath thrown     The veil from off that fatal stone,     And pointing now with sapless finger,     Showeth where dark those letters linger,--     Letters four and letters three,     T. H. E. D. E. B. T.     At sight thereof, each lifted brand     Powerless falls from every hand;     In vain the Patriot knits his brow,--     Even talk, his staple, fails him now.     In vain the King like a hero treads,     His Lords of the Treasury shake their heads;     And to all his talk of "brave and free,"     No answer getteth His Majesty     But "T. H. E. D. E. B. T."     In short, the whole Gull nation feels     They're fairly spell-bound, neck and heels;     And so, in the face of the laughing world,     Must e'en sit down with banners furled,     Adjourning all their dreams sublime     Of glory and war to-some other time.