CLXIV.

MARMION TAKING LEAVE OF DOUGLAS.

The train from out the castle drew; But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:— "Though something I might plain," he said, "Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by your king's behest, While in Tantallon's towers I stayed,— Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble earl, receive my hand." But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:— "My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still Be open, at my sovereign's will, To each one whom he lists, howe'er Unmeet to be the owner's peer. My castles are my king's alone, From turret to foundation-stone;— The hand of Douglas is his own; And never shall in friendly grasp The hand of such as Marmion clasp!" Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire, And—"This to me!" he said,— "An 't were not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion's had not spared To cleave the Douglas' head! And, first, I tell thee, Haughty peer, He who does England's message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate! And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, E'en in thy pitch of pride, Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near— (Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword,) I tell thee, thou'rt defied! And if thou said'st I am not a peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied!" On the earl's cheek the flush of rage O'ercame the ashen hue of age: Fierce he broke forth: "And darest thou, then, To beard the lion in his den,— The Douglas in his hall? And hopest thou hence unscathed to go? No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!— Up drawbridge, grooms! what, warder, ho! Let the portcullis fall." Lord Marmion turned,—well was his need,— And dashed the rowels in his steed, Like arrow through the archway sprung; The ponderous gate behind him rung: To pass, there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume.

The steed along the drawbridge flies, Just as it trembled on the rise; Not lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake's level brim: And when Lord Marmion reached his band, He halts, and turns with clenched hand, A shout of loud defiance pours, And shakes his gauntlet at the towers! Sir W. Scott.

CLXV.

HIGHLAND WAR-SONG.

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, summon Clan Conuil. Come away, come away, hark to the summons! Come in your war-array, gentles and commons. Come from deep glen, and from mountain so rocky; The war-pipe and pennon are at Inverlocky. Come every hill-plaid, and true heart that wears one, Come every steel blade, and strong hand that bears one. Leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges: Come with your fighting gear, broadswords and targes. Come as the winds come, when forests are rended, Come as the waves come, when navies are stranded: Faster come, faster come, faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page and groom, tenant and master. Fast they come, fast they come; see how they gather! Wide waves the eagle plume, blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each man set! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, knell for the onset! Sir W. Scott.

CLXVI.

DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.

The king stood still Till the last echo died; then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe:—

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die! Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom!

"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet 'My father!' from those dumb And cold lips, Absalom!

"But death is on thee; I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;— But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom!

"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee. Absalom!

"And now, farewell! 'T is hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee!— And thy dark skin!—oh! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child; then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively as if in prayer; And, as if strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently—and left him there, As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. N. P. Willis.

CLXVII.

"LOOK NOT UPON THE WINE."

Look not upon the wine when it Is red within the cup! Stay not for pleasure when she fills Her tempting beaker up!

Though clear its depths, and rich its glow, A spell of madness lurks below. They say 't is pleasant on the lip, And merry on the brain;

They say it stirs the sluggish blood, And dulls the tooth of pain. Ay—but within its glowing deeps A stinging serpent, unseen, sleeps.

Its rosy lights will turn to fire, Its coolness change to thirst; And, by its mirth, within the brain A sleepless worm is nursed. There's not a bubble at the brim That does not carry food for him.

Then dash the brimming cup aside, And spill its purple wine; Take not its madness to thy lip— Let not its curse be thine. 'T is red and rich but grief and woe Are in those rosy depths below. N. P. Willis.

CLXVIII.

THE LEPER.

Day was breaking, When at the altar of the temple stood The holy priest of God. The incense lamp Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof, Like an articulate wail; and there, alone, Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. The echoes of the melancholy strain Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off His costly raiment for the leper's garb, And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, Waiting to hear his doom:—

"Depart! depart, O child Of Israel, from the temple of thy God! For He has smote thee with His chastening rod, And to the desert-wild, From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee, That from thy plague His people may be free.

"Depart! and come not near The busy mart, the crowded city, more; Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er. And stay thou not to hear Voices that call thee in the way; and fly From all who in the wilderness pass by.

"Wet not thy burning lip In streams that to a human dwelling glide; Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide; Nor kneel thee down to dip The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, By desert well, or river's grassy brink.

"And pass not thou between The weary traveller and the cooling breeze; And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees Where human tracks are seen; Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain.

"And now depart! and when Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim, Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him, Who, from the tribes of men, Selected thee to feel His chastening rod— Depart! O leper! and forget not God!"

And he went forth—alone! not one of all The many whom he loved, nor she whose name Was woven in the fibres of the heart Breaking within him now, to come and speak Comfort unto him. Yea, he went his way, Sick and heart-broken, and alone—to die! For God had cursed the leper!

It was noon, And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched The loathsome water to his fevered lips, Praying he might be so blest—to die! Footsteps approached, and with no strength to flee, He drew the covering closer on his lip, Crying, "Unclean!—unclean!" and in the folds Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face, He fell upon the earth till they should pass. Nearer the Stranger came, and bending o'er The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name— "Helon!" The voice was like the master-tone Of a rich instrument—most strangely sweet; And the dull pulses of disease awoke, And for a moment beat beneath the hot And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. "Helon arise!" And he forgot his curse, And rose and stood before him.

Love and awe Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye, As he beheld the Stranger. He was not In costly raiment clad, nor on His brow The symbol of a lofty lineage wore; No followers at His back, nor in His hand Buckler, or sword, or spear—yet in His mien Command sat throned serene, and if He smiled, A kingly condescension graced His lips, The lion would have crouched to in his lair. His garb was simple, and His sandals worn; His statue modelled with a perfect grace; His countenance, the impress of a God, Touched with the open innocence of a child; His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky In the serenest noon; His hair, unshorn, Fell to His shoulders; and His curling beard The fulness of perfected manhood bore. He looked on Helon earnestly awhile, As if His heart was moved; and stooping down, He took a little water in His hand And laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean!" And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins, And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow The dewy softness of an infant's stole. His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshiped him. N. P. Willis.

CLXLX.

PARRHASIUS AND THE CAPTIVE.

The golden light into the painter's room Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole From the dark pictures radiantly forth, And in the soft and dewy atmosphere, Like forms and landscapes magical they lay. Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus— The vulture at his vitals, and the links Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh; And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth With its far-reaching fancy, and with form And color clad them, hiss fine earnest eye Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl Of His thin nostril, and his quivering lip Were like the wingd god's, breathing from his fight

"Bring me the captive, now! My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift From my waked spirit airily and swift, And I could paint the bow Upon the bended heavens—around me play Colors of such divinity to-day.

"Ha! bind him on his back! Look!—as Prometheus in my picture here! Quick!—or he faints!—stand with the cordial near! Now—bend him on the rack! Press down the poisoned links into his flesh! And tear agape that healing wound afresh!

"So,—let him writhe! How long Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now! What a fine agony works upon his brow! Ha! gray-haired and so strong! How fearfully he stifles that short moan! Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!

"'Pity' thee! So I do! I pity the dumb victim at the altar— But does the robed priest for his pity falter? I'd rack thee, though I knew A thousand lives were perishing in thine— What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?

"But, there's a deathless name! A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn, And, like a steadfast planet, mount and burn— And though its crown of flame Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone— By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!

"Ay—though it bid me rifle My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst— Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first— Though it should bid me stifle The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, And taunt its mother till my brain went wild—

"All—I would do it all— Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot— Thrust foully into earth to be forgot! O heavens!—but I appall Your heart, old man!—forgive—ha! on your lives Let him not faint! rack him till he revives!

"Vain—vain—give o'er. His eye Glazes apace. He does not feel you now— Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow! Gods! if he do not die, But for one moment—one—till I eclipse Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!

"Shivering! Hark! he mutters Brokenly now—that was a difficult breath— Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death? Look! how his temple flutters! Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head! He shudders—gasps—Jove help him—so—he's dead."

How like a mounting devil in the heart Rules the unreined ambition! Let it once But play the monarch, and its haughty brow Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought, And enthrones peace forever. Putting on The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns The heart to ashes, and with not a spring Left in the bosom for the spirit's life, We look upon our splendor, and forget The thirst of which we perish! Oh, if earth be all, and heaven nothing, What thrice mocked fools are we! N. P. Willis.

CLXX.

CASABIANCA.

The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead.

The flames rolled on. He would not go Without his father's word; That father faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud: "say, father, say If yet my task is done!" He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!" And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death In still, yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud, "My father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child Like banners in the sky.

Then came a burst of thunder sound— The boy—oh! where was he! Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strewed the sea,

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part; But the noblest thing that perished there Was that young faithful heart! Mrs. Hemans.

CLXXI.

THE BENDED BOW.

There was heard the sound of a coming foe, There was sent through Britain a bended bow; And a voice was poured on the free winds far,

As the land rose up at the sound of war: Heard ye not the battle horn? Reaper! leave thy golden corn! Leave it for the birds of heaven; Swords must flash, and spears be riven: Leave it for the winds to shed,— Arm! ere Britain's turf grows red! And the reaper armed, like a freeman's son; And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

Hunter! leave the mountain chase! Take the falchion from its place! Let the wolf go free to-day; Leave him for a nobler prey! Let the deer ungalled sweep by,— Arm thee! Britain's foes are nigh! And the hunter armed, ere the chase was done; And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

Chieftain! quit the joyous feast! Stay not till the song hath ceased: Though the mead be foaming bright, Though the fire gives ruddy light, Leave the hearth and leave the hall,— Arm thee! Britain's foes must fall! And the chieftain armed, and the horn was blown; And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

Prince! thy father's deeds are told In the bower and in the hold, Where the goatherd's lay is sung, Where the minstrel's harp is strung! Foes are on thy native sea,— Give our bards a tale of thee! And the prince came armed, like a leader's son; And the bended bow and the voice passed on. Mother! stay thou not thy boy! He must learn the battle's joy. Sister! bring the sword and spear, Give thy brother words of cheer! Maiden! bid thy lover part; Britain calls the strong in heart! And the bended bow and the voice passed on; And the bards made song of a battle won. Mrs. Hemans.

CLXXII.

THE BETTER LAND.

"I hear thee speak of the better land, Thou call'st its children a happy band; Mother! O where is that radiant shore?— Shall we not seek it and weep no more?— Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies glance thro' the myrtle boughs?" —"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? Or midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange, bright birds, on starry wings, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?" —"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?— Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?" Is it there, sweet mother! that better land?" —"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair— Sorrow and death may not enter there; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, —It is there, it is there, my child" Mrs. Hemans.

CLXXIII.

LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woads against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of Exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear;— They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea! And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free!

The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared;— This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair Amidst that Pilgrim band; Why have they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow, serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus, afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? —They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod! They have left unstained what there they found— Freedom to worship God! Mrs. Hemans.

CLXXIV

BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.

The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire;— "I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my captive train, I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!—O! break my father's chain!" —"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day! Mount thy good horse; and thou and I will meet him on his way." Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed.

And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band, With one that 'midst them stately rode, as leader in the land: "Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see."

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's hue came and went; He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent; A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took— What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?

That hand was cold—a frozen thing—it dropped from his like lead! He looked up to the face above,—the face was of the dead! A plume waved o'er the noble brow,—the brow was fixed and white: He met at last, his father's eyes,—but in them was no light!

Up from the ground he sprang and gazed,—but who could paint that gaze? They hushed their very hearts that saw its horror and amaze;— They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood; For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.

"Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then: Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men! He thought on all his hopes, and all his young renown,— He flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down.

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow,— "No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for, now; My king is false,—my hope betrayed! My father—O! the worth, The glory, and the loveliness are passed away from earth!

"I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside thee, yet! I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met! Thou wouldst have known my spirit, then;—for thee my fields were won; And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!"

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein, Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train; And, with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led And sternly set them face to face—the king before the dead:—

"Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss?— Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought,—give answer, where are they? If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay!

"Into these glassy eyes put light;—be still! keep down thine ire!— Bid these white lips a blessing speak,—this earth is not my sire: Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed!— Thou canst not?—and a king!—his dust be mountains on thy head"

He loosed the steed,—his slack hand fell;—upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place: His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain:— His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of Spain. Mrs. Hemans.

CLXXV.

BERNARDO AND KING ALPHONSO.

With some good ten of his chosen men, Bernardo hath appeared, Before them all in the palace hall, The lying king to beard; With cap in hand and eye on ground, He came in reverend guise, But ever and anon he frowned, And flame broke from his eyes.

"A curse upon thee," cries the king, "Who com'st unbid to me! But what from traitor's blood should spring, Save traitor like to thee? His sire, lords, had a traitor's heart,— Perchance our champion brave May think it were a pious part To share Don Sancho's grave."

—"Whoever told this tale, The king hath rashness to repeat," Cries Bernard, "here my gage I fling Before the liar's feet! No treason was in Sancho's blood— No stain in mine doth lie: Below the throne what knight will own The coward calumny?

"The blood that I like water shed, When Roland did advance, By secret traitors hired and led, To make us slaves of France; The life of king Alphonso I saved at Roncesval— Your words, Lord King, are recompense Abundant for it all.

"Your horse was down—your hope was flown— I saw the falchion shine That soon had drunk your royal blood, Had I not ventured mine; But memory soon of service done Deserteth the ingrate; You've thanked the son for life and crown By the father's bloody fate.

"Ye swore upon your kingly faith To set Don Sancho free; But, curse upon your paltering breath! The light he never did see; He died in dungeon cold and dim, By Alphonso's base decree; And visage blind and stiffened limb, Were all they gave to me.

"The king that swerveth from his word, Hath stained his purple black; No Spanish lord will draw his sword Behind a liar's back; But noble vengeance shall be mine, And open hate I'll show— The king hath injured Carpio's line, And Bernard is his foe!"

—"Seize, seize him!" loud the King doth scream; "There are a thousand here! Let his foul blood this instant stream;— What! caitiffs, do ye fear? Seize, seize the traitor!" But not one To move a finger dareth; Bernardo standeth by the throne, And calm his sword he bareth.

He drew the falchion from the sheath, And held it up on high; And all the hall was still as death;— Cries Bernard, "Here am I— And here's the sword that owns no lord, Excepting Heaven and me; Fain would I know who dares its point,— King, Cond or Grandee."

Then to his mouth his horn he drew— It hung below his cloak— His ten true men the signal knew, And through the ring they broke; With helm on head, and blade in hand, The knights the circle break, And back the lordlings 'gan to stand, And the false king to quake.

"Ha! Bernard," quoth Alphonso, "What means this warlike guise? Ye know full well I jested— Ye know your worth I prize!" But Bernard turned upon his heel, And, smiling, passed away:— Long rued Alphonso and his realm The jesting of that day! J. G. Lockhart.

CLXXVI.

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

One more unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing: Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully Gentle and humanly; Not of the stains of her— All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.

Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; While wonderment guesses Where was her home?

Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Oh! it was pitiful Near a whole city full Home she had none!

Sisterly, brotherly Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed: Love by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged.

When the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood with amazement Houseless by night. The bleak winds of March Made her tremble and shiver But not the dark arch, Of the black flowing river.

Mad from life's history Glad to death's mystery Swift to be hurled— Anywhere, anywhere, Out of the world— In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran.

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly, smooth, and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity,

Perishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest. —Cross her hands humbly As if praying dumbly, Over her breast! Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour! T. Hood.

CLXXVII.

SONG OF THE SHIRT.

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread,— Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang the "Song of the Shirt."

"Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work,—work,—work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It's, oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work!

"Work,—work,—work! Till the brain begins to swim, Work,—work,—work, Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream!

"Oh! men, with sisters dear! Oh! men with mothers and wives! —It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch,—stitch,—stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt.

"But why do I talk of death, That Phantom of grizzly bone? I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own; It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work,—work,—work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread,—and rags.— That shattered roof,—and this naked floor,— A table,—a broken chair,— And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there!

"Work,—work,—work! From weary chime to chime! Work,—work,—work, As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand.

"Work,—work,—work, In the dull December light, And work,—work,—work, When the weather is warm and bright; While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the Spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweets— With the sky above my head And the grass beneath my feet; For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel Before I knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh! for but one short hour, A respite, however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief! A little weeping would ease my heart; But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags Plying her needle and thread— Stitch!—stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,— Would that its song could reach the rich!— She sang this "Song of the Shirt." T. Hood.

CLXXVIII.

LOOK ALOFT.

In the tempest of life, when the waves and the gale Are around and above, if thy footing should fail, If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart, "Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart.

If thy friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow, With a smile for each joy, and a tear for each woe, Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are arrayed, "Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.

Should the visions which hope spreads in light to the eye, Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret, "Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set.

Should they who are dearest,—the son of thy heart, The wife of thy bosom,—in sorrow depart, "Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb, To that soil where affection is ever to bloom.

And, oh! when Death comes in his terror to cast His fears on the future, his pall on the past, In that moment of darkness with hope in thy heart, And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft"—and depart. J. Lawrence.

CLXXIX.

PRESS ON.

Press on! there's no such word as fail! Press nobly on! the goal is near,— Ascend the mountain! breast the gale! Look upward, onward,—never fear! Why should'st thou faint? Heaven smiles above, Though storm and vapor intervene; That sun shines on, whose name is Love, Serenely o'er Life's shadowed scene. Press on! surmount the rocky steeps, Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch; He fails alone who feebly creeps; He wins who dares the hero's march. Be thou a hero! let thy might Tramp on eternal snows its way, And, through the ebon wails of night Hew down a passage unto day. Press on! if once and twice thy feet Slip back and stumble, harder try; From him who never dreads to meet Danger and death, they're sure to fly. To coward ranks the bullet speeds, While on their breasts, who never quail, Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds, Bright courage, like a coat of mail. Press on! if Fortune play thee false To-day, to-morrow she'll be true; Whom now she sinks, she now exalts Taking old gifts, and granting new. The wisdom of the present hour Makes up for follies past and gone;— To weakness strength succeeds, and power From frailty springs,—press on! press on!

Press bravely on! and reach the goal, And gain the prize, and wear the crown; Faint not! for to the steadfast soul Come wealth, and honor, and renown. To thine own self be true, and keep Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil; Press on! and thou shalt surely reap A heavenly harvest for thy toil. P. Benjamin.

CLXXX.

KINDNESS.

The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter Have their own season. 'T is a little thing To give a cup of water; yet its draught Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips, May give a shock of pleasure to the frame More exquisite than when sectarian juice renews the life of joy in happiest hours. It is a little thing to speak a phrase Of common comfort which by daily use Has almost lost its sense; yet on the ear Of him who thought to die unmourned 't will fall Like choicest music; fill the glazing eye With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand To know the bonds of fellowship again; And shed on the departing soul a sense More precious than the benison of friends About the honored death-bed of the rich, To him who else were lonely, that another Of the great family is near and feels. Sergeant Talfourd.

CLXXXI.

HOW'S MY BOY?

Ho, sailor of the sea! How 's my boy—my boy? "What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sailed he?"

My boy John— He that went to sea— What care I for the ship, sailor? My boy's my boy to me.

You come back from sea And not know my John? I might as well have asked some landsman Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish But he knows my John. How's my boy—my boy?

And unless you let me know I'll swear you are no sailor, Blue jacket or no, Brass button or no, sailor, Anchor or crown or no! Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton— "Speak low, woman, speak low!"

And why should I speak low, sailor? About my own boy John? If I was loud as I am proud I'll sing him over the town! Why should I speak low, sailor?— "That good ship went down."

How 's my boy—my boy? What care I for the ship, sailor, I never was aboard her. Be she afloat, or be she aground, Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound, Her owners can afford her! I say how's my John?— "Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her."

How's my boy—my boy? What care I for the men, sailor? I'm not their mother— How's my boy—my boy? Tell me of him and no other! How's my boy—my boy? S. Dobell.

CLXXXII.

EXCELSIOR.

The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, "Excelsior!"

His brow was sad; his eye beneath, Flashed like a falchion from its sheath; And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue! "Excelsior!"

In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright: Above, the spectral glaciers shone; And from his lips escaped a groan, "Excelsior!"

"Try not the pass!" the old man said; "Dark lowers the tempest overhead. The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud that clarion voice replied, "Excelsior!"

"O, stay," the maiden said, "and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!"— A tear stood in his bright blue eye; But still he answered with a sigh, "Excelsior!"

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche!" This was the peasant's last good night;— A voice replied, far up the height, "Excelsior!"

At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered their oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air, "Excelsior!"

A traveller,—by the faithful hound, Half buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, "Excelsior!"

There, in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless but beautiful he lay; And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star,— "Excelsior!" H. W. Longfellow.

CLXXXIII.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!" For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us further than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting; And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,—act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;—

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. H. W. Longfellow.

CLXXXIV.

THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP.

All is finished, and at length Has come the bridal day Of beauty and of strength. To-day the vessel shall be launched! With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, And o'er the bay, Slowly, in all his splendors dight, The great sun rises to behold the sight.

The ocean old, Centuries old, Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, Paces restless to and fro, Up and down the sands of gold. His beating heart is not at rest; And far and wide With ceaseless flow His beard of snow Heaves with the heaving of his breast.

He waits impatient for his bride. There she stands, With her foot upon the sands, Decked with flags and streamers gay, In honor of her marriage-day, Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, Round her like a veil descending, Ready to be The bride of the gray old sea.

Then the Master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand; And at the word, Loud and sudden there was heard, All around them and below, The sound of hammers, blow on blow, knocking away the shores and spurs. And see! she stirs! She starts,—she moves,—she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms.

And lo! from the assembled crowd There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, That to the ocean seemed to say, "Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray; Take her to thy protecting arms, With all her youth and all her charms."

How beautiful she is! how fair She lies within those arms, that press Her form with many a soft caress Of tenderness and watchful care! Sail forth into the sea, O ship! Through wind and wave, right onward steer! The moistened eye, the trembling lip, Are not the signs of doubt or fear.

Sail forth into the sea of life, O gentle, loving, trusting wife, And safe from all adversity, Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings be! For gentleness, and love, and trust, Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives!

Thou, too, sail on, O ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great! Humanity, with all its fears, With all its hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate! We know what Master laid thy keel, What workman wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge, and what a heat, Were shaped the anchors of thy hope.

Fear not each sudden sound and shock; 'T is of the wave, and not the rock; 'T is but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale. In spite of rock and tempest roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea. Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee: Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee—are all with thee. H. W. Longfellow.

CLXXXV.

THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT.

Forced from home and all its pleasures, Afric's coast I left forlorn; To increase a stranger's treasures, O'er the raging billows borne. Men from England bought and sold me, Paid my price in paltry gold; But though slave they have enrolled me, Minds are never to be sold. Still in thought as free as ever, What are England's rights, I ask, Me from my delights to sever, Me to torture, me to task? Fleecy locks and black complexion Cannot forfeit Nature's claim; Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same.

Why did all-creating Nature Make the plant for which we toil? Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters, iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards; Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords.

Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, Is there One who reigns on high? Has He bid you buy and sell us, Speaking from His throne, the sky? Ask Him, if your knotted scourges, Matches, blood-extorting screws, Are the means that duty urges Agents of His will to use?

Hark! He answers,—wild tornadoes, Strewing yonder sea with wrecks, Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, Are the voice with which He speaks. He, foreseeing what vexations Afric's sons should undergo, Fixed their tyrants' habitation Where his whirlwinds answer—No.

By our blood in Afric wasted, Ere our necks received the chain; By the miseries that we tasted, Crossing in your barks the main; By our suffering since ye brought us To the man-degrading mart; All, sustained by patience, taught us Only by a broken heart.

Deem our nation brutes no longer, Till some reason ye shall find Worthier of regard, and stronger Than the color of our kind. Slaves of gold! whose sordid dealings Tarnish all your boasted powers, Prove that you have human feelings, Ere you proudly question ours. W. Cowper.

CLXXXVI.

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

Toll for the brave! the brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, and laid her on her side. A laud-breeze shook the shrouds, and she was overset; Down went the Royal George, with all her crew complete! Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought his work of glory done. It was not in the battle; no tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak; she ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath, his fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down, with twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up, once dreaded by our foes, And mingle with our cup the tear that England owes! Her timbers yet are sound, and she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, and plow the distant main. But Kempenfelt is gone, his victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred shall plow the waves no more. W. Cowper.

CXXXVII.

SLAVERY.

O for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumor of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, Might never reach me more. My ear is pained, My soul is sick, with every day's report Of wrong and outrage, with which earth is filled. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart; It does not feel for man; the natural bond Of brotherhood is severed as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not colored like his own; and having power To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause, Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And worse than all, and most to be deplored, As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush, And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews, bought and sold, has ever earned. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation prized above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave, And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. We have no slaves at home—then why abroad? And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free; They touch our country, and their shackles fall. That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it, then, And let it circulate through every vein Of all your empire; that, where Britain's power Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. W. Cowper.

CLXXXVIII.

THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY.

Blaze with your serried columns! I will not bend the knee! The shackles ne'er again shall bind The arm which now is free. I've mailed it with the thunder, When the tempest muttered low; And where it falls, ye well may dread The lightning of its blow!

I've scared ye in the city, I've scalped ye on the plain; Go, count your chosen, where they fell Beneath my leaden rain! I scorn your proffered treaty! The pale-face I defy! Revenge is stamped upon my spear, And blood my battle-cry!

Ye've trailed me through the forest, Ye've tracked me o'er the stream; And struggling through the everglade, Your bristling bayonets gleam; But I stand as should the warrior, With his rifle and his spear;— The scalp of vengeance still is red, And warns ye,—Come not here!

I loathe ye in my bosom, I scorn ye with my eye, And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath, And fight ye till I die! I never will ask ye quarter, And I never will be your slave; But I'll swim the sea of slaughter, Till I sink beneath the wave! G. W. Patten.

CLXXXIX.

THE THREE BEATS.

Roll—roll!—How gladly swell the distant notes From where, on high, yon starry pennon floats! Roll—roll!—On, gorgeously they come, With plumes low-stooping, on their winding way, With lances gleaming in the sun's bright ray:— "What do ye here, my merry comrades,—say?"— "We beat the gathering drum; 'T is this which gives to mirth a lighter tone, To the young soldier's cheek a deeper glow, When stretched upon his grassy couch, alone, It steals upon his ear,—this martial call Prompts him to dreams of gorgeous war, with all

"Its pageantry and show!" Roll—roll!—"What is it that ye beat?" "We sound the charge!—On with the courser fleet!— Where 'mid the columns, red war's eagles fly, We swear to do or die!— 'T is this which feeds the fires of Fame with breath, Which steels the soldier's heart to deeds of death; And when his hand, Fatigued with slaughter, pauses o'er the slain, 'T is this which prompts him madly once again To seize the bloody brand!"

Roll—roll!—"Brothers, what do ye here, Slowly and sadly as ye pass along, With your dull march and low funereal song?" "Comrade! we bear a bier! I saw him fall! And, as he lay beneath his steed, one thought, (Strange how the mind such fancy should have wrought!) That, had he died beneath his native skies, Perchance some gentle bride had closed his eyes And wept beside his pall!" G. W. Patten.

CXC.

THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vales, O pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters; As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war! Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre!

O! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League draw out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry and Egmont's Flemish spears! There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land! And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King has come to marshal us, in all his armor drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his People, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, in deafening shout, "God save our lord, the King!" "And if my standard-bearer fall,—as fall full well he may, For never saw! promise yet of such a bloody fray,— Press where ye see my white plume shine, amid the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin! The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andr's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies now, upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest, And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein, D'Aumale hath cried for quarter—the Flemish Count is slain; Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The fields are heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van "Remember Saint Bartholomew!" was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, then—"No Frenchman is my foe; Down, down with every foreigner! but let your brethren go." O! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne! Weep, weep and rend your hair for those who never shall return! Ho! Philip, send for charity thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright! Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night! For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre! T. B. Macaulay.

CXCI.

THE SOLDIER FROM BINGEN.

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers. There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebb'd away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land; Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen—at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. and 'midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; But some were young—and suddenly beheld life's morn decline; And one had come from Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, and I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage; For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate're they would, but kept my father's sword, And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage-wall at Bingen—calm Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die. And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honor of old Bingen—dear Bingen on the Rhine!

"There's another—not a sister; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry,—too fond for idle scorning,— Oh! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning; Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen My body will be out of pain—my soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk And her little hand lay lightly! confidingly in mine: But we'll meet no more at Bingen—loved Bingen on the Rhine!"

His voice grew faint and hoarser,—his grasp was childish weak,— His eyes put on a dying look—he sighed and ceased to speak: His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,— The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land—was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strewn; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine! Mrs Norton.

CXCII.

"GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER."

Give me three grains of corn, mother, Only three grains of corn; It will keep the little life I have, Till the coming of the morn. I am dying of hunger and cold, mother, Dying of hunger and cold, And half the agony of such a death My lips have never told.

It has gnawed like a wolf at my heart, mother, A wolf that is fierce for blood,— All the livelong day, and the night beside, Gnawing for lack of food. I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother, And the sight was heaven to see,— I awoke with an eager, famishing lip, But you had no bread for me.

How could I look to you, mother, How could I look to you, For bread to give to your starving boy, When you were starving too? For I read the famine in your cheek, And in your eye so wild, And I felt it in your bony hand, As you laid it on your child.

The queen has lands and gold, mother, The queen has lands and gold, While you are forced to your empty breast A skeleton babe to hold,— A babe that is dying of want, mother, As I am dying now, With a ghastly look in its sunken eye, And famine upon its brow.

What has poor Ireland done, mother, What has poor Ireland done, That the world looks on, and sees us starve, Perishing, one by one? Do the men of England care not, mother, The great men and the high, For the suffering sons of Erin's isle, Whether they live or die?

There is many a brave heart here, mother, Dying of want and cold, While only across the channel, mother, Are many that roll in gold; There are rich and proud men there, mother, With wondrous wealth to view, And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night, Would give life to me and you.

Come nearer to my side, mother, Come nearer to my side, And hold me fondly, as you held My father when he died; Quick, for I cannot see you, mother; My breath is almost gone; Mother! dear mother! ere! die, Give me three grains of corn. Miss Edwards.

CXCIII.

TELL'S APOSTROPHE TO LIBERTY.

Once more I breathe the mountain air; once more I tread my own free hills! My lofty soul Throws all its fetters off; in its proud flight, 'T is like the new-fledged eaglet, whose strong wing Soars to the sun it long has gazed upon— With eye undazzled. O! ye mighty race That stand like frowning giants, fixed to guard My own proud land; why did ye not hurl down The thundering avalanche, when at your feet The base usurper stood? A touch, a breath, Nay, even the breath of prayer, ere now, has brought Destruction on the hunter's head; and yet The tyrant passed in safety. God of heaven! Where slept thy thunderbolts?

O LIBERTY! Thou choicest gift of Heaven, and wanting which Life is as nothing; hast thou then forgot Thy native home? Must the feet of slaves Pollute this glorious scene? It cannot be. Even as the smile of Heaven can pierce the depths Of these dark caves, and bid the wild flowers bloom In spots where man has never dared to tread; So thy sweet influence still is seen amid These beetling cliffs. Some hearts still beat for thee, And bow alone to Heaven; thy spirit lives, Ay,—and shall live, when even the very name Of tyrant is forgot.

Lo! while I gaze Upon the mist that wreathes yon mountain's brow, The sunbeam touches it, and it becomes A crown of glory on his hoary head; O! is not this a presage of the dawn Of freedom o'er the world? Hear me, then, bright And beaming Heaven! while kneeling thus, I vow To live for Freedom, or with her to die!

O! with what pride I used To walk these hills, and look up to my God And bless Him that it was so. It was free,— From end to end, from cliff to lake 't was free,— Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks, And plow our valleys, without asking leave; Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow, In very presence of the regal sun! How happy was I in it then! I loved Its very storms! Yes, I have sat and eyed The thunder breaking from His cloud, and smiled To see Him shake His lightnings o'er my head, And think! had no master save His own!

Ye know the jutting cliff; round which a track Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow To such another one, with scanty room For two abreast to pass? Overtaken there By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along, And while gust followed gust more furiously, As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink, And I have thought of other lands, whose storms Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just Have wished me there,—the thought that mine was free, Has checked that wish, and I have raised my head, And cried in thraldom to that furious wind, Blow on! This is THE LAND of LIBERTY! J. S. Knowles.

CXCIV.

WILLIAM TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.

Ye crags and peaks: I'm with you once again! I hold to you the hands ye first beheld, To show they still are free. Methinks I hear A spirit in your echoes answer me, And bid your tenant welcome to his home Again!—O sacred forms, how proud you look! How high you lift your heads into the sky! How huge you are! how mighty, and how free! Ye are the things that tower, that shine,—whose smile Makes glad, whose frown is terrible, whose forms, Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty, I'm with you once again!—I call to you With all my voice!—I hold my hands to you, To show they still are free. I rush to you As though I could embrace you! —Scaling yonder peak, I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow O'er the abyss;—his broad-expanded wings Lay calm and motionless upon the air, As if he floated there without their aid, By the sole act of his unlorded will, That buoyed him proudly up. Instinctively I bent my brow; yet kept he rounding still His airy circle, as in the delight Of measuring the ample range beneath And round about; absorbed, he heeded not The death that threatened him. I could not shoot!— 'T was Liberty! I turned my bow aside, And let him soar away! J. S. Knowles.

CXCV.

THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.

O'er a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray, Where, in his last, strong agony, a dying warrior lay,— The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been bent By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent.

"They come around me here, and say my days of life are o'er, That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no more; They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that I, Their own liege lord and master born, that I—ha! ha! must die.

"And what is death? I've dared him oft, before the Paynim spear; Think ye he's entered at my gate—has come to seek me here? I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was raging hot;— I'll try his might, I'll brave his power!—defy—and fear him not!

"Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the culverin; Bid each retainer arm with speed; call every vassal in. Up with my banner on the wall,—the banquet board prepare,— Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armor there!"

An hundred hands were busy then; the banquet forth was spread, And rung the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread; While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted wall, Lights gleamed on harness, plume and spear, o'er the proud old Gothic hall.

Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retainers poured, On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the board; While at its head, within his dark, carved, oaken chair of state, Armed cap—pie, stern Rudiger, with gilded falchion, sat.

"Fill every beaker up, my men! pour forth the cheering wine! There 's life and strength in every drop,—thanksgiving to the vine! Are ye all there, my vassals true?—mine eyes are waxing dim: Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim!

"Ye're there, but yet I see you not!—forth draw each trusty sword, And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board! I hear it faintly!—louder yet! What clogs my heavy breath? Up, all!—and shout for Rudiger, 'Defiance unto death!'"

Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and rose a, deafening cry, That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on high: "Ho! cravens! Do ye fear him? Slaves! traitors! have ye flown? Ho! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone?

"But I defy him!—let him come!" Down rang the massy cup, While from its sheath the ready blade came flashing half-way up; And with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on his head, There in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger sat—dead! A. G. Greene.

CXCVI.

THE WATER DRINKER.

O, water for me! Bright water for me, And wine for the tremulous debauchee. Water cooleth the brow, and cooleth the brain, And maketh the faint one strong again; It comes o'er the sense like a breeze from the sea, All freshness, like infant purity; O, water, bright water, for me, for me! Give wine, give wine, to the debauchee!

Fill to the brim! fill, fill to the brim; Let the flowing crystal kiss the rim! For my hand is steady, my eye is true, For I, like the flowers, drink nothing but dew. O, water, bright water's a mine of wealth, And the ores which it yieldeth are vigor and health. So water, pure water, for one, for me! And wine for the tremulous debauchee.

Fill again to the brim, again to the brim! For water strengtheneth life and limb! To the days of the aged it addeth length, To the might of the strong it addeth strength; It freshens the heart, it brightens the sight, 'T is like quaffing a goblet of morning light! So, water, I will drink nothing but thee, Thou parent of health and energy!

When over the hills, like a gladsome bride, Morning walks forth in her beauty's pride, And, leading a band of laughing hours, Brushes the dew from the nodding flowers, O! cheerily then my voice is heard Mingling with that of the soaring bird, Who flingeth abroad his matin loud As he freshens his wing in the cold, gray cloud.

But when evening has quitted her sheltering yew, Drowsily flying, and weaving anew Her dusky meshes o'er land and sea, How gently, O sleep, fall thy poppies on me! For I drink water, pure, cold, and bright, And my dreams are of heaven the livelong night. So hurrah for thee, water! hurrah! hurrah! Thou art silver and gold, thou art ribbon and star, Hurrah for bright water! hurrah! hurrah! E. Johnson.

CXCVII.

CHAMOUNI.

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! Riseth from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above, Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, As will a wedge. But, when I look again, It is thine own calm home thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity!

O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought; entranced in prayer, I worshiped the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody,— So sweet we know not we are listening to it,— Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy; Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing—there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven.

Awake, my soul! Not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks, and silent ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs! all join my hymn.

Thou, first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale! O, struggling with the darkness of the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink,— Companion of the morning star at dawn, Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald—wake! O wake! and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad! Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jaggd rocks, Forever shattered, and the same forever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam? And who commanded,—and the silence came,— "Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest"?

Ye ice-falls! ye, that from the mountain's brow, Adown enormous ravines slope amain,— Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? "God!" let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer: and let the ice-plains echo, "God!" "God!" sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice! Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And, in their perilous fall, shall thunder, "God!"

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the elements! Utter forth "God!" and fill the hills with praise!

Once more, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene Into the depths of clouds, that veil thy breast— Thou too, again, stupendous mountain! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,— Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me—Rise, O, ever rise! Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth! Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills! Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great Hierarch, tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, "Earth, with her thousand voices, praises god." S. T. Coleridge.

CXCVIIII.

"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT T0 AIX."

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride for stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,— Nor galloped less steadily Roland, a whit.

'T was moonset at starting; but, while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Dffeld, 't was morning as plain as could be; And from Mechlin church-steeple we heard the half-chime, So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time!"

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare through the mist at us galloping past, And I saw my stout galloper, Roland, at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its sprays

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence,—ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault 's not in her, We'll remember at Aix"—for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Loos and past Tongrs, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

"How they 'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer, Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is friends flocking round As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which, (the burgesses voted by common consent,) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. R. Browning.

CXCIX.

THE SWORD.

'T was on the battle-field; and the cold pale moon Looked down on the dead and dying; And the wind passed o'er with a dirge and a wail, Where the young and brave were lying.

With his father's sword in his red right hand, And the hostile dead around him, Lay a youthful chief; but his bed was the ground, And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.

A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom, Passed a soldier, his plunder seeking; Careless he stepped where friend and foe Lay alike in their life-blood reeking.

Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword, The soldier paused beside it; He wrenched the hand with a giant's strength, But the grasp of the dead defied it.

He loosed his hold, and his noble heart Took part with the dead before him; And he honored the brave who died sword in hand, As with softened brow he leaned o'er him.

"A soldier's death thou hast boldly died, A soldier's grave won by it: Before I would take that sword from thine hand, My own life's blood should dye it.

"Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow, Or the wolf to batten o'er thee; Or the coward insult the gallant dead, Who in life had trembled before thee."

Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth, Where his warrior foe was sleeping; And he laid him there, in honor and rest, With his sword in his own brave keeping. Miss Landon.

CC.

THE FIREMAN.

Hoarse wintry blasts a solemn requiem sung To the departed day, Upon whose bier The velvet pall of midnight lead been flung, And Nature mourned through one wide hemisphere Silence and darkness held their cheerless sway, Save in the haunts of riotous excess; And half the world in dreamy slumbers lay, Lost in the maze of sweet forgetfulness. When lo! upon the startled ear, There broke a sound so dread and drear,— As, like a sudden peal of thunder, Burst the bands of sleep asunder, And filled a thousand throbbing hearts with fear.

Hark! the faithful watchman's cry Speaks a conflagration nigh!— See! yon glare upon the sky Confirms the fearful tale. The deep-mouthed bells with rapid tone, Combine to make the tidings known; Affrighted silence now has flown, And sounds of terror freight the chilly gale!

At the first note of this discordant din, The gallant fireman from his slumber starts; Reckless of toil and danger, if he win The tributary meed of grateful hearts. From pavement rough, or frozen ground, His engine's rattling wheels resound, And soon before his eyes The lurid flames, with horrid glare, Mingled with murky vapors rise, In wreathy folds upon the air, And veil the frowning skies!

Sudden a shriek assails his heart,— A female shriek, so piercing wild, As makes his very life-blood start:— "My child! Almighty God, my child!" He hears, And 'gainst the tottering wall The ponderous ladder rears: While blazing fragments round him fall, And crackling sounds assail his ears, His sinewy arm, with one rude crash, Hurls to the earth the opposing sash; And, heedless of the startling din, Though smoky volumes round him roll, The mother's shriek has pierced his soul,— See! see! he plunges in! The admiring crowd, with hopes and fears, In breathless expectation stands, When, lo! the daring youth appears, Hailed by a burst of warm, ecstatic cheers, Bearing the child triumphant in his arms. Anonymous.

CCI. SPEAK GENTLY.

Speak gently: it is better far To rule by love than fear. Speak gently: let no harsh words mar The good we might do here.

Speak gently; love doth whisper low The vows that true hearts bind; And gently friendship's accents flow,— Affection's voice is kind.

Speak gently to the little child, Its love be sure to gain; Teach it in accents soft and mild,— It may not long remain.

Speak gently to the young; for they Will leave enough to bear: Pass through this life as best we may, 'T is full of anxious care.

Speak gently to the aged one, Grieve not the care-worn heart; The sands of life are nearly run,— Let such in peace depart.

Speak gently, kindly to the poor; Let no harsh tone be heard; They have enough they must endure, Without an unkind word.

Speak gently to the erring;—know They must have toiled in vain; Perchance unkindness made them so;— O! win them back again.

Speak gently! He who gave His life To bend man's stubborn will, When elements were fierce with strife, Said to them, "Peace! be still."

Speak gently: 't is a little thing Dropped in the heart's deep well; The good, the joy which it may bring, Eternity shall tell. Anonymous.

CCII.

THE PASSIONS.

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell

Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possessed beyond the Muse's painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined:

Till once, 't is said, when all were fired, Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round They snatched her instruments of sound,

And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for Madness ruled the hour, Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewildered laid, And back recoiled, he knew not why, E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rustled, his eyes on fire, In lightnings owned his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair— Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled, A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whispered promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called on Echo still through all the song; And, where her sweetest notes she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair;—

And longer had she sung:—but with a frown, Revenge impatient rose: He threw the blood-stained sword in thunder down; And with a withering look The war-denouncing trumpet took And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe! And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; And, though sometimes, each dreamy pause between, Dejected Pity, at his side, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed: Sad proof of thy distressful state! Of differing themes the veering song was mixed; And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired; And, from her wild, sequestered seat, In notes, by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And, dashing soft from rocks around Bubbling runnels joined the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.

But O! how altered was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung!— The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known! The oak-crowned Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen, Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green: Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest: But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Temp's vale, her native maids, Amidst the festal-sounding shades, To some unworried minstrel dancing; While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:— Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;— And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. W. Collins.

CCIII.

NEW ENGLAND.

Hail to the land whereon we tread, Our fondest boast; The sepulchre of mighty dead, The truest hearts that ever bled, Who sleep on glory's brightest bed, A fearless host: No slave is here—our unchained feet Walk freely, as the waves that beat Our coast.

Our fathers crossed the ocean's wave To seek this shore; They left behind the coward slave To welter in his living grave;— With hearts unbent, and spirits brave, They sternly bore Such toils as meaner souls had quelled; But souls like these, such toils impelled To soar.

Hail to the acorn, when first they stood. On Bunker's height, And, fearless stemmed the invading flood, And wrote our dearest rights in blood, And mowed in ranks the hireling brood, In desperate fight! O! 't was a proud, exulting day, For even our fallen fortunes lay In light.

There is no other land like thee, No dearer shore; Thou art the shelter of the free; The home, the port of liberty Thou hast been, and shalt ever be, Till time is o'er. Ere I forget to think upon Thy land, shall mother curse the son She bore.

Thou art the firm unshaken rock, On which we rest; And rising from thy hardy stock, Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock, And slavery's galling chains unlock, And free the oppressed: All, who the wreath of freedom twine, Beneath the shadow of their vine Are blest.

We love thy rude and rocky shore, And here we stand— Let foreign navies hasten o'er, And on our heads their fury pour, And peal their cannon's loudest roar, And storm our land: They still shall find, our lives are given To die for home;—and leant on Heaven Our hand. J. G. Percival.

CCIV.

SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY.

From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony This universal frame began: When Nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Arise, ye more than dead! Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, In order to their stations leap, And Music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony This universal frame began: From harmony, to harmony, Through all the compass of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in Man.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell? When Jubal struck the chorded shell His listening brethren stood around, And, wondering, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound. Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Of the thundering drum, Cries, "Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 't is too late to retreat!"

The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains, and height of passion For the fair disdainful dame.

But oh! what art can teach, What human voice can reach The sacred Organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race, And trees uprooted left their place, Sequacious of the lyre; But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher; When to her Organ vocal breath was given, An angel heard, and straight appeared— Mistaking earth for heaven!

As from the power of sacred lays The spheres began to move, And sung the great Creator's praise To all the blest above; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on highs The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky. J. Dryden.

CCV.

THE SAILOR'S SONG.

The sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be; With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence wheresoever I go; If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love, O how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the sou'west blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more, And backward flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; And a mother she was and is to me; For I was born on the open sea! The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born; And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild As welcomed to life the ocean-child! I've lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a sailor's life, With wealth to spend and a power to range, But never have sought nor sighed for change; And Death, whenever he comes to me, Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea! B. W. Proctor.

CCVI.

NAPOLEON.

His falchion flashed along the Nile; His hosts he led through Alpine snows; O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while, His eagle flag unrolled,—and froze.

Here sleeps he now, alone! Not one Of all the kings, whose crowns he gave, Bends o'er his dust;—nor wife, nor son, Has ever seen or sought his grave.

Behind this sea-girt rock, the star That led him on from crown to crown, Has sunk; and nations from afar Gazed as it faded and went down.

High is his couch;—the ocean flood, Far, far below, by storms is curled; As round him heaved, while high he stood A stormy and unstable world.

Alone he sleeps! The mountain cloud That night hangs round him, and the breath Of morning scatters, is the shroud That wraps the conqueror's clay in death.

Pause here! The far-off world, at last, Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones, And to the earth its mitres cast, Lies powerless now beneath these stones.

Hark! comes there, from the pyramids, And from Siberian wastes of snow, And Europe's hills, a voice that bids The world he awed to mourn him? No:

The only, the perpetual dirge That's heard there, is the sea-bird's cry,— The mournful murmur of the surge,— The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. J. Pierpont.

CCVII.

WARREN'S ADDRESS AT BUNKER HILL.

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What's the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle peal! Read it on yon bristling steel! Ask it—ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you! they're a-fire! And, before you, see— Who have done it!—from the vale On they come!—and will ye quail?— Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be!

In the God of battles trust! Die we may, and die we must;— But, O! where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where heaven its dews shall shed On martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell! J. Pierpont.

CCVIII.

THANATOPSIS.

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language. For his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty; and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart,— Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around— Earth and her waters, and the depths of air— Comes a still voice:—Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet if the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone—nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world,—with kings, The powerful of the earth,—the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre.—The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun; the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,— Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are dining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, and traverse Barca's desert sands; Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings,—yet—the dead are there, And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep;—the dead reign there alone.— So shalt thou rest—and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man— Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side, By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. W. C. Bryant.

CCIX.

THE AFRICAN CHIEF.

Chained in the market-place he stood, A man of giant frame, Amid the gathering multitude That shrunk to hear his name,— All stern of look and strong of limb, His dark eye on the ground; And silently they gazed on him, As on a lion bound.

Vainly, but well, that chief had fought— He was a captive now; Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, Was written on his brow: The scars his dark broad bosom wore Showed warrior true and brave: A prince among his tribe before, He could not be a slave.

Then to his conqueror he spake— "My brother is a king: Undo this necklace from my neck, And take this bracelet ring, And send me where my brother reigns, And I will fill thy hands With store of ivory from the plains, And gold dust from the sands."

—"Not for thy ivory nor thy gold Will I unbind thy chain; That bloody hand shall never hold The battle-spear again. A price thy nation never gave Shall yet be paid for thee; For thou shalt be the Christian's slave, In land beyond the sea."

Then wept the warrior chief, and bade To shred his locks away, And, one by one, each heavy braid Before the victor lay. Thick were the platted locks, and long, And deftly hidden there Shone many a wedge of gold among The dark and crispd hair.

"Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold, Long kept for sorest need: Take it—thou askest sums untold— And say that I am freed. Take it—my wife, the long, long day, Weeps by the cocoa-tree, And my young children leave their play, And ask in vain for me."

—"I take thy gold,—but I have made Thy fetters fast and strong, And ween that by the cocoa shade Thy wife shall wait thee long." Strong was the agony that shook The captive's frame to hear, And the proud meaning of his look Was changed to mortal fear.

His heart was broken,—crazed his brain— At once his eye grew wild: He struggled fiercely with his chain, Whispered,—and wept,—and smiled; Yet wore not long those fatal bands, And once, at shut of day, They drew him forth upon the sands,— The foul hyena's prey. W. C. Bryant.

CCX.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encounter'd in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget How gush'd the life-blood of her brave,— Gush'd, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still; Alone the chirp of flitting birds And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry: Oh, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weapon'd throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown—yet faint thou not,

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When they who help'd thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal'd The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. W. C. Bryant.

CCXI.

HALLOWED GROUND.

What's hallowed ground! Has earth a clod Its Maker meant not should be trod By man, the image of his God, Erect and free, Unscourged by Superstition's rod To bow the knee?

That's hallowed ground—where mourned and missed, The lips repose our love has kissed;— But where's their memory's mansion? Is 't Yon churchyard's bowers? No; in ourselves their souls exist, A part of ours.

What hallows ground where heroes sleep? 'T is not the sculptured piles you heap! In dews that heavens far distant weep, Their turf may bloom; Or genii twine beneath the deep Their coral tomb.

But strew his ashes to the wind Whose sword or voice has served mankind—And is he dead, whose glorious mind Lifts thine on high? To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die.

Is 't death to fall for freedom's right? He's dead alone that lacks her light! And murder sullies in Heaven's sight The sword he draws:— What can alone ennoble fight? A noble cause!

Give that! and welcome war to brace Her drums! and rend heaven's reeking space! The colors painted face to face, The charging cheer, Though Death's pale horse led on the chase, Shall still be dear!

And place our trophies where men kneel To Heaven!—but Heaven rebukes my zeal! The cause of truth and human weal, O God above! Transfer it from the sword's appeal To peace and love!

Peace, love! the cherubim, that join Their spread wings o'er devotion's shrine;— Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine Where they are not;— The heart alone can make divine Religion's spot.

To incantations dost thou trust, And pompous rites in domes august? See mouldering stones and metals' rust Belie the vaunt, That man can bless one pile of dust With chime or chant.

Fair stars! are not your beings pure? Can sin, can death your worlds obscure? Else why so swell the thoughts at your Aspect above? Ye must be Heaven's that make us sure Of heavenly love!

And in your harmony sublime I read the doom of distant time; That man's regenerate soul from crime Shall yet be drawn, And reason on his mortal clime Immortal dawn.

What's hallowed ground? 'T is what gives birth To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!— Peace! independence! truth! go forth Earth's compassed round; And your high-priesthood shall make earth All hallowed ground. T. Campbell.

CCXII.

THE EXILE OF ERIN.

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,— The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed, when, at twilight, repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill: But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion; For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fervor of youth's warm emotion, He sung the bold anthem of "Erin go bragh!"

"Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger— "The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger: A home and a country remain not to me! Never again in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with wild woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of 'Erin go bragh!'

"Erin! my country! though sad and forsaken In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore! But, alas! in a far, foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! O cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me! They died to defend me!—or live to deplore!

"Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? Ah! my sad soul, long abandoned by pleasure! Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall!