“However, for myself; as soon as the news of Catherton’s escape from the French frigate reached the States by another ship, I started again, with a vow on my soul to roam the world, until I should hunt him down. Year in and year out, wherever there was a prospect of meeting him—on the African and Brazilian coasts—on the Spanish Main—and in the sea-ports of the East, I sought him with a hatred which gathered intensity from time. Twice I heard of him in command of a free-cruising craft, and once in Port Royal he narrowly escaped me. The third time, as sailors say, is lucky—the saw lied though, in this instance,” said the mate, hoarsely, “for I found him three days ago, cut in two by a round-shot, on the quarter-deck of yonder schooner.”
We started to our feet as he said this, partly from surprise, and partly because we heard the boat-swain’s mates at the hatchways.
The second day after that the Constitution was lying at anchor with her prize in the bay of Naples; and to have seen Harry Miller gazing out of a port at the world renowned shores which environ it—or turning his back on a crowd of chattering officials, whom curiosity brought off to the schooner—or in a shore-boat, with a party on leave of absence, you never would have supposed, from the look and bearing of the man, that he had been the relator of that wild yarn.
THE ACTUAL.
Away! no more shall shadows entertain;No more shall fancy paint and dreams delude;No more shall these delusions of the brainDivert me with their pleasing interlude:Forever ere ye banished, idle joys;Welcome stern labor-life—this is no world for toys!
Away! no more shall shadows entertain;No more shall fancy paint and dreams delude;No more shall these delusions of the brainDivert me with their pleasing interlude:Forever ere ye banished, idle joys;Welcome stern labor-life—this is no world for toys!
Away! no more shall shadows entertain;No more shall fancy paint and dreams delude;No more shall these delusions of the brainDivert me with their pleasing interlude:Forever ere ye banished, idle joys;Welcome stern labor-life—this is no world for toys!
Away! no more shall shadows entertain;
No more shall fancy paint and dreams delude;
No more shall these delusions of the brain
Divert me with their pleasing interlude:
Forever ere ye banished, idle joys;
Welcome stern labor-life—this is no world for toys!
THE PLEDGE.
———
BY JOHN NEAL.
———
Sampson was a Nazarite. He drank no wine nor strong drink; and so long as he kept the pledge and the secret of his strength, was indeed a giant. Read the scripture narrative.
“Then went Sampson down. . . . And behold a young lion roared against him.“And the Spirit of the Lord came mightily upon him, and he rent him as he would have rent a kid; and he had nothing in his hand.”Judgesxiv. 5, 6, etc.
“Then went Sampson down. . . . And behold a young lion roared against him.
“And the Spirit of the Lord came mightily upon him, and he rent him as he would have rent a kid; and he had nothing in his hand.”Judgesxiv. 5, 6, etc.
Brothers! we have pledged ourselves,Like the mighty man of old,By a vow that bindeth fast,By the Future! by the Past!By their banners now unrolled!That the secret of our strength,Unacknowledged—unrevealed—Setting us apart from others,Undefiled, O, Giant Brothers!Shall forever be concealed:Never to be told on earth,Never breathed aloud in prayer—Never written—never spoken—Lest our awful vow, if broken,Bring us bondage and despair.Brothers! let us all remember,How that Strong Man self betrayed;He that with a heart of iron;Where he journeyed, heard the lionRoar against him—undismayed:He, the mightiest of the land,By the harlotry of Sense,Blind and fettered, came to beA jester at a jubilee,A proverb for his impotence!And though his strength came back anewWhen he bowed himself in prayer,Until he had avenged the wrongThat called him up with shout and songAnd jeer and scoff—he perished there.
Brothers! we have pledged ourselves,Like the mighty man of old,By a vow that bindeth fast,By the Future! by the Past!By their banners now unrolled!That the secret of our strength,Unacknowledged—unrevealed—Setting us apart from others,Undefiled, O, Giant Brothers!Shall forever be concealed:Never to be told on earth,Never breathed aloud in prayer—Never written—never spoken—Lest our awful vow, if broken,Bring us bondage and despair.Brothers! let us all remember,How that Strong Man self betrayed;He that with a heart of iron;Where he journeyed, heard the lionRoar against him—undismayed:He, the mightiest of the land,By the harlotry of Sense,Blind and fettered, came to beA jester at a jubilee,A proverb for his impotence!And though his strength came back anewWhen he bowed himself in prayer,Until he had avenged the wrongThat called him up with shout and songAnd jeer and scoff—he perished there.
Brothers! we have pledged ourselves,Like the mighty man of old,By a vow that bindeth fast,By the Future! by the Past!By their banners now unrolled!
Brothers! we have pledged ourselves,
Like the mighty man of old,
By a vow that bindeth fast,
By the Future! by the Past!
By their banners now unrolled!
That the secret of our strength,Unacknowledged—unrevealed—Setting us apart from others,Undefiled, O, Giant Brothers!Shall forever be concealed:
That the secret of our strength,
Unacknowledged—unrevealed—
Setting us apart from others,
Undefiled, O, Giant Brothers!
Shall forever be concealed:
Never to be told on earth,Never breathed aloud in prayer—Never written—never spoken—Lest our awful vow, if broken,Bring us bondage and despair.
Never to be told on earth,
Never breathed aloud in prayer—
Never written—never spoken—
Lest our awful vow, if broken,
Bring us bondage and despair.
Brothers! let us all remember,How that Strong Man self betrayed;He that with a heart of iron;Where he journeyed, heard the lionRoar against him—undismayed:
Brothers! let us all remember,
How that Strong Man self betrayed;
He that with a heart of iron;
Where he journeyed, heard the lion
Roar against him—undismayed:
He, the mightiest of the land,By the harlotry of Sense,Blind and fettered, came to beA jester at a jubilee,A proverb for his impotence!
He, the mightiest of the land,
By the harlotry of Sense,
Blind and fettered, came to be
A jester at a jubilee,
A proverb for his impotence!
And though his strength came back anewWhen he bowed himself in prayer,Until he had avenged the wrongThat called him up with shout and songAnd jeer and scoff—he perished there.
And though his strength came back anew
When he bowed himself in prayer,
Until he had avenged the wrong
That called him up with shout and song
And jeer and scoff—he perished there.
TO A BEAUTIFUL GIRL.
———
BY J. R. BARRICK.
———
I do not love thee—yet my heart is filled
With a sweet spirit of the beautiful,
Whene’er I sit alone to muse upon
Thy dark eye beaming in a sea of light,
Thy cheek all flush with summer’s rosy glow,
Thy pure, high brow, so beautiful and calm,
O’er which the light and glory of thy thoughts
Beam like the tints of summer’s genial sky
Above a waveless lake—the low, sweet tones
Thy gentle voice breathes on the evening breeze—
Thy pure, high heart, the paradise of peace,
Where lovely flowers spring up in beauty wild,
And blossom into hope—where angels come
On missioned wings from their far homes in heaven,
To chant their Eden songs.
I love thee not
With the wild, wayward love of earth, and yet
If worship be that deep idolatry
The heathen pays in homage to the sun,
Then I have worshiped thee, for I have bowed
In passions deep and holy hour to thee,
And at thy shrine of beauty offered up
The tribute of affection.
I have mused
On Nature in her morning light, when first
The sun looks out upon a world of peace,
When the glad air was vocal with the songs
Of many warblers in their morning joy,
And thou wast there in all of sight and sound,
Thyself the spirit of the beautiful
In all to eye and ear. And I have gone
At evening ’mid the shadows of the wood
To view the glories of the bursting spring,
And hear the thousand sweet and joyous strains
That thrilled each warbler in his evening praise,
And thou wast there, thy beauty dearer far
Than aught in nature seen, and thy sweet voice,
Than all earth’s melodies. I’ve gazed upon
The sunset sky in its last glowing tint,
And felt the spirit of the twilight hour
Stealing upon the scene with potent spell,
Yet thou wast there, and in those happy hours
Thy spirit, like the rainbow o’er a cloud,
Was spanning o’er my bosom.
Thou hast been
A rainbow set above my wildest storm,
A star within my else all darkened sky,
A lovely flower beside my desert path,
A gentle spirit in my heart of hearts,
To bless me with its presence.
From the waves,
And from the winds, and from the gentle streams,
Thy voice hath caught a spell, whose lightest tone
Is very love and sweetness. From the stars,
And from the sky, and from the sunset hues,
That glow like spirits of the beautiful
Along the western world, thine eyes have caught
A brightness and a glory that outvie
The glowing dreams of fancy. From the heaven
From whence thou sprang all perfect at thy birth,
And from all love, and from all passion sweet,
From thought and sense, and from the wide green earth
And from the sky, and from the glorious stars,
Thy mind and heart have stolen their brightest tints,
Till they are but a mirror of the whole,
The sum end substance of all lovely things,
Thyself the Spirit of the Beautiful!
THE FIRST AGE.
———
BY H. DIDIMUS.
———
(Concluded from page 546.)
BOOK FOURTH.
O, help me to escape that oblivion which is more fearful than death! Who would fall with the common herd, like rain into the ocean—lost in eternity! Even as the lightning is born of conflicting vapor; is born to penetrate, change, and subdue. So, of every age, and of the breath and roar of the people, is born one to rule, and mould, and make his time. Go then, and get power. Get it by the sword; since, even in our day, blood buoys the strong swimmer onward to greatness. Get it by arts of policy; since men will be ruled, and most honor those who rule them most sternly. Get it by the pen; a voice which fills all time, reaches every ear, fashions the intellect of millions, and makes it your own. Who would not float down through endless ages upon a strain of such music, the multitudinous echo of a spirit chosen of God? The shade of Tubal rests upon my hand, and guides it.
The gentle dew falls in silence, unmarked; the print of its footsteps disappear before the growing light; yet the earth acknowledges its presence in the livelier green it puts on to make glad its children. In the narrow valley lives an honest worker; one who, with years of labor, has subdued the hardy soil. Even now, the yellow grain bends beneath the weight of its own wealth, and wakes a joy which ambition never knew. Think you that his days are unrecorded in the Book of Life? Upon his broad shoulders rests the State. Ariel’s soul is content.
Thus, early in time, to these two were given, in divided empire, the passions which now govern the sons of Adam; and have built up, giving and receiving mutual aid, all our glory.
——
As the adventurer, he who first traversed the Amazon, lost in the wood which covers, thick, the base of Chimborazo, shutting out day and night, listened with large wonder, mixed fear and joy, to the war of elements unchained within its bowels; so Erix and Zella, with all their tribe, listened to the first voice of that strange instrument which Ariel, gifted of God, after many days, raised high, midway the mountains and the sea. He had caught and tamed, to answer to the touch of a skill creative, the sure interpreter of matter and of mind; and the vast soul which, in these latter days, is well shadowed forth in that book of love, called The People. He, in a page resplendent with holy fire, and with a name here unrecognized, is given to every true believer as the builder of the Organ, and inventor of that art which raises man close to the footstool of his Maker; and as the notes—new to mortal ears—rose deep, heavy, filling the forest wide, overcoming the distant murmur of the sea, overcoming all voices of all life, rumbling, changed to the clangor of great strifes run for in the future upon many an unbattled plain, to close in a hymn so soft, so melting, so full of sweet acknowledgment of the power by God intrusted to a noble end: even Zella, who had watched his toils and marked their purpose, fell prostrate; while Erix and his brethren, trembling, fled; nor turned till the music, wild with joy and that laughter which leaps from youth, and health, and a breast vacant of all care, soothed their unknown fears, and drew them with a golden cord, slow tracing back their steps, again to listen, again to wonder, and again to admire; till, grown familiar, they expressed with cries, sad shouts, and gestures violent, their new bliss, and circling, danced. Then, catching the measure, as Ariel’s marvelous hand poured forth a song of high gratitude for the gift of chiefest excellence in all that store of heaven’s bounty by himself enjoyed, they gave rhythm for rhythm.
——
“Now, do we know, O God, that thy love endureth for ever.”
“Sweet, even unto thee, was the voice of Adam.”
“Sweet, even unto thee, was the voice of Eve.”
“Our great mother;”
“Our good mother;”
“Fairer than the star of the morning, Eve.”
“Speak for us, Adam;”
“Speak for us, Eve;”
“These are thy voices,”
“In Paradise rejoicing.”
“We hear thee, mother,”
“Glorious,”
“Amid the flowery paths walking.”
“O, lift from my soul this evil,”
“Greater than they may bear!”
“And it is lifted, mother;”
“And the breath of flowers thou didst train,”
“Sweet-scented,”
“And the warble of birds thou didst instruct,”
“To praise the growing light,”
“And the heaving of thy bosom,”
“Pleading,”
“Face to face,”
“Come to us,”
“Swell over us,”
“Cover us,”
“As with a sea of infinite delight,”
“O, matchless beauty of a matchless skill;”
“Unborn;”
“Fallen through love!”
“We hear thee,”
“We feel thee,”
“Breathing,”
“Breathing upon our ears;”
“And it is lifted,”
“Mother;”
“And we rise,”
“Upon the wings of this music,”
“Even unto the throne which endureth for ever.”
——
Thus Ariel played; and from day to day, even as his brother at the forge found new devices, added knowledge to knowledge in his high art, to be lost in that flood which washed, whiter than wool, the sins, of the world. And from day to day there came, from tribes far distant, many to whom rumor had spoken of this joy late found; and of them, one so fashioned in love’s mould, that she drew after her, ever as she moved, the eyes of men. Not Aglaia and her sisters, of the heroic age of poesy universal, could match her qualities, of an excellence so rare, that the oldest, who remembered Eve, called her Eve’s daughter. Now, alone, her sole attendant a young gazelle, hung with garlands woven by her hand, and tamed to reflect, in the soft lustre of its eyes, eyes more soft and more lustrous far, she stood aloof, then nearer drew, and halting, drank in with greedy ear, as one long famished, the liquid melody which floated, beating, upon the air. She listened till her very breathing hung upon each note, and grew, or was fined away, in consonance with the measure; and as the master closed, she bowed before him, low, in reverence, even to the ground; and rising, asked—
“Art thou of the sons of God?”
Then first did Ariel’s eyes rest upon the maid there standing, bright, as a vision from that land which he in childhood sought, to lose forever; and fire ran through every vein, and that passion which enforces unity of person and of will.
“Fairest of Eve’s daughters, such worship is not mine. To Him who clothed thee with His beauty, alone belongs reverence, with prayer.”
“In my father’s house I have seen many like unto thyself, winged.”
“Whence art thou?”
“From east of Eden.”
“And thy father?”
“Cain.”
“Who yet lives?”
“Mighty in that glory which is his as the first-born of all the earth.”
“How looks he?”
“Noble, even as thyself, with twice thy stature, majestic; and upon his front supreme burns a star, inextinguishable, the covenant of mercy for that act of which I may no further speak.”
“The blood of Abel!”
Deep night overcame them suddenly, and swept past, as the rushing of a strong wind.
“My father!”
Then turned the maid and fled; in fleetness outstripping the garlanded beast which hastened to catch her steps, retreating, lighter than its own. And as, upon the plains of Arcady, Melanion did strive with Atalanta in the race, in king Jason’s time, so Ariel, pushed by a power that knows no let, followed quick upon love’s course, nor stayed, till he caught the frighted deer, full many a league removed, panting, upon a bed of violets which lay smiling in the sunlight where the forest opened charily to the sky.
“Oh, primest work of earth!”
Then, in turn, he worshiped, and bowed, even to her feet, which, trembling, he embraced.
“Thou didst follow me to my hurt.”
“I did follow thee for thy love.”
“On this side of Eden I may no longer stay.”
“Eden, where is it, if not with thee!”
“Thus do the angels speak, and then—betray.”
“Powers of the air; false to heaven, they must be false to thee.”
“Thy comeliness had said thou wast of them.”
“Thy comeliness should better have answered thy doubt.”
“A sweet persuader art thou with thy tongue.”
“A sweeter persuasion rests upon thy lips.”
“Hist! I hear the flowers moving.”
“It is the murmur of the sea, far distant, calling.”
“What sayest it?”
“Love.”
The maid, half-yielding, half-refusing, by doubt and trust in turn possessed, bent over the fair-eyed beast recumbent at her side, and stroked its smoking flanks, and played with the garlands now displaced and torn, and sought with pliant fingers to renew a labor which might conceal the passion new-born, struggling in her breast.
“Thou shall forsake thy land and dwell with me; and here, along these paths, and by the waters whose words thou hearest, and with the light, and with darkness, we will all the pleasures prove which God to our first parents gave when, in Paradise, resting, he declared all things good.”
“And Cain?”
“Sweet cousin?”
“It was my father’s shadow that overcame us, and I fled, fearing his anger, from the music of thy tongue.”
“Great is Cain.”
“Loved is Cain.”
And thus, alternating, deprecating, amid the violets standing, they sang in praise of the first-born of the earth.
——
“Mighty;”
“Majestic;”
“Lord;”
“Heritor of Adam;”
“Thou who didst first receive a mother’s kiss, of Eve, a mother;”
“Hear us.”
“Greatest, among men, is thy strength;”
“Greatest, among men, is thy glory,”
“For thou alone,”
“Of all the living,”
“Hast seen God!”
“Oh, son of earth’s love,”
“Love’s first fruit,”
“Hear us,”
“Bless us,”
“As thou didst pursue my mother, swift-footed,”
“As thou didst worship the fair-eyed, beyond Eden,”
“So am I pursued, my father;”
“So do I worship, Cain.”
“Heart to heart;”
“Soul to soul;”
“Of one will;”
“Melting into one being;”
“Bless us;”
“Even as God hath blessed thee,”
“All merciful.”
“And thou, oh Sun, effulgent;”
“And ye woods, whose song is ceaseless;”
“And broad sea, far distant, speaking;”
“And flowers, incense breathing,”
“Bear witness.”
“Now do I receive thee,”
“Now do I pledge thee,”
“Life of my life,”
“To an unending joy.”
——
And Ariel led the maid, quick retracing their late course, blushing, with eyelids drooping, listening with face averted to the music of his passion, homeward to his mother; while the garlanded beast, now flying before their steps, now halting, showed mimic war, and caressed its mistress, from whose eyes it caught security and love.
THE ORPHAN’S HYMN.
———
BY E. ANNA LEWIS.
———
Here’s the tomb of my father—how mournful the thought!That he went to the grave ere my infantile mindOne smile of parental affection had caught,Or his lineaments dear in my heart were enshrined!Yes, my sire! by thy dust I am kneeling in prayer,Where in days of my childhood so oft I have wept,Imploring thy spirit to soothe my despair,And at evening and morning sweet vigils have kept.Ere my young mind could grasp them, they told me thy woes;Of the virtues that bind thee forever to me;Of the love of thy friends, of the hate of thy foes;That in features and mind I was like unto thee;And with dawning of thought is thy memory wove,The grief and the pining that prey on my breast;The longing to soar to thy dwelling above,And repose in thine arms in the Land of the Blest.I have never seen parents their children caress,Or soothe into quiet their heart-breathingWhen the storm of misfortune around them did press,But the tears of affection arose to mine eyes:I have ne’er met a maid by the side of her sire,Or beheld in the festal a father who keptWatch over his daughter, and seemed to admireHis lovely and beautiful charge, but I’ve wept.My mother lies by him—blessed saint of the skies!Remembrance returns thee; how gentle and meek;I behold thee when youth filled with radiance thine eyes,And beauty and health were illuming thy cheek;When thy delicate form was elastic as air,When thy bosom was white as the Parian’s glow,When thy beautiful ringlets of long, flowing hair,In sable threads sprinkled thy forehead of snow.How solemn, dear mother! it seems, that the clay,Relentless and cold, now encumbers the breast,Where, all helpless, so oft I in infancy lay,And, soothed by thy lullaby, sobbed me to rest;That on earth I shall never behold thee again,Never more feel thy rosy lips pressing my brow,Or thy fairy hand smoothing my pillow of pain—Thy affection and love must forever forgo!My sister sleeps next—lovely blossom of heaven!Ah, why wast thou summoned so early away?Why so soon was the bond of our sisterhood riven,And I left alone on the cold earth to stay?Why wast thou not spared to delight and to cheerMy desolate heart ’mid depression and gloom;With thy love-breathing counsels to gladden my ear—With thy songs and thy smiles to enliven my home?Sleep on, ye beloved! it is better to restIn the halls of the dead, than to linger in life,Where the brain and the bosom with pains are oppressedAnd the soul is beleaguered by sorrow and strife;Sleep on! though no blossoms your homes are perfuming,There are calmness and freedom from discord and care,The lovely and beautiful daily are coming—And in my pale vesture I soon shall be there.
Here’s the tomb of my father—how mournful the thought!That he went to the grave ere my infantile mindOne smile of parental affection had caught,Or his lineaments dear in my heart were enshrined!Yes, my sire! by thy dust I am kneeling in prayer,Where in days of my childhood so oft I have wept,Imploring thy spirit to soothe my despair,And at evening and morning sweet vigils have kept.Ere my young mind could grasp them, they told me thy woes;Of the virtues that bind thee forever to me;Of the love of thy friends, of the hate of thy foes;That in features and mind I was like unto thee;And with dawning of thought is thy memory wove,The grief and the pining that prey on my breast;The longing to soar to thy dwelling above,And repose in thine arms in the Land of the Blest.I have never seen parents their children caress,Or soothe into quiet their heart-breathingWhen the storm of misfortune around them did press,But the tears of affection arose to mine eyes:I have ne’er met a maid by the side of her sire,Or beheld in the festal a father who keptWatch over his daughter, and seemed to admireHis lovely and beautiful charge, but I’ve wept.My mother lies by him—blessed saint of the skies!Remembrance returns thee; how gentle and meek;I behold thee when youth filled with radiance thine eyes,And beauty and health were illuming thy cheek;When thy delicate form was elastic as air,When thy bosom was white as the Parian’s glow,When thy beautiful ringlets of long, flowing hair,In sable threads sprinkled thy forehead of snow.How solemn, dear mother! it seems, that the clay,Relentless and cold, now encumbers the breast,Where, all helpless, so oft I in infancy lay,And, soothed by thy lullaby, sobbed me to rest;That on earth I shall never behold thee again,Never more feel thy rosy lips pressing my brow,Or thy fairy hand smoothing my pillow of pain—Thy affection and love must forever forgo!My sister sleeps next—lovely blossom of heaven!Ah, why wast thou summoned so early away?Why so soon was the bond of our sisterhood riven,And I left alone on the cold earth to stay?Why wast thou not spared to delight and to cheerMy desolate heart ’mid depression and gloom;With thy love-breathing counsels to gladden my ear—With thy songs and thy smiles to enliven my home?Sleep on, ye beloved! it is better to restIn the halls of the dead, than to linger in life,Where the brain and the bosom with pains are oppressedAnd the soul is beleaguered by sorrow and strife;Sleep on! though no blossoms your homes are perfuming,There are calmness and freedom from discord and care,The lovely and beautiful daily are coming—And in my pale vesture I soon shall be there.
Here’s the tomb of my father—how mournful the thought!That he went to the grave ere my infantile mindOne smile of parental affection had caught,Or his lineaments dear in my heart were enshrined!Yes, my sire! by thy dust I am kneeling in prayer,Where in days of my childhood so oft I have wept,Imploring thy spirit to soothe my despair,And at evening and morning sweet vigils have kept.
Here’s the tomb of my father—how mournful the thought!
That he went to the grave ere my infantile mind
One smile of parental affection had caught,
Or his lineaments dear in my heart were enshrined!
Yes, my sire! by thy dust I am kneeling in prayer,
Where in days of my childhood so oft I have wept,
Imploring thy spirit to soothe my despair,
And at evening and morning sweet vigils have kept.
Ere my young mind could grasp them, they told me thy woes;Of the virtues that bind thee forever to me;Of the love of thy friends, of the hate of thy foes;That in features and mind I was like unto thee;And with dawning of thought is thy memory wove,The grief and the pining that prey on my breast;The longing to soar to thy dwelling above,And repose in thine arms in the Land of the Blest.
Ere my young mind could grasp them, they told me thy woes;
Of the virtues that bind thee forever to me;
Of the love of thy friends, of the hate of thy foes;
That in features and mind I was like unto thee;
And with dawning of thought is thy memory wove,
The grief and the pining that prey on my breast;
The longing to soar to thy dwelling above,
And repose in thine arms in the Land of the Blest.
I have never seen parents their children caress,Or soothe into quiet their heart-breathingWhen the storm of misfortune around them did press,But the tears of affection arose to mine eyes:I have ne’er met a maid by the side of her sire,Or beheld in the festal a father who keptWatch over his daughter, and seemed to admireHis lovely and beautiful charge, but I’ve wept.
I have never seen parents their children caress,
Or soothe into quiet their heart-breathing
When the storm of misfortune around them did press,
But the tears of affection arose to mine eyes:
I have ne’er met a maid by the side of her sire,
Or beheld in the festal a father who kept
Watch over his daughter, and seemed to admire
His lovely and beautiful charge, but I’ve wept.
My mother lies by him—blessed saint of the skies!Remembrance returns thee; how gentle and meek;I behold thee when youth filled with radiance thine eyes,And beauty and health were illuming thy cheek;When thy delicate form was elastic as air,When thy bosom was white as the Parian’s glow,When thy beautiful ringlets of long, flowing hair,In sable threads sprinkled thy forehead of snow.
My mother lies by him—blessed saint of the skies!
Remembrance returns thee; how gentle and meek;
I behold thee when youth filled with radiance thine eyes,
And beauty and health were illuming thy cheek;
When thy delicate form was elastic as air,
When thy bosom was white as the Parian’s glow,
When thy beautiful ringlets of long, flowing hair,
In sable threads sprinkled thy forehead of snow.
How solemn, dear mother! it seems, that the clay,Relentless and cold, now encumbers the breast,Where, all helpless, so oft I in infancy lay,And, soothed by thy lullaby, sobbed me to rest;That on earth I shall never behold thee again,Never more feel thy rosy lips pressing my brow,Or thy fairy hand smoothing my pillow of pain—Thy affection and love must forever forgo!
How solemn, dear mother! it seems, that the clay,
Relentless and cold, now encumbers the breast,
Where, all helpless, so oft I in infancy lay,
And, soothed by thy lullaby, sobbed me to rest;
That on earth I shall never behold thee again,
Never more feel thy rosy lips pressing my brow,
Or thy fairy hand smoothing my pillow of pain—
Thy affection and love must forever forgo!
My sister sleeps next—lovely blossom of heaven!Ah, why wast thou summoned so early away?Why so soon was the bond of our sisterhood riven,And I left alone on the cold earth to stay?Why wast thou not spared to delight and to cheerMy desolate heart ’mid depression and gloom;With thy love-breathing counsels to gladden my ear—With thy songs and thy smiles to enliven my home?
My sister sleeps next—lovely blossom of heaven!
Ah, why wast thou summoned so early away?
Why so soon was the bond of our sisterhood riven,
And I left alone on the cold earth to stay?
Why wast thou not spared to delight and to cheer
My desolate heart ’mid depression and gloom;
With thy love-breathing counsels to gladden my ear—
With thy songs and thy smiles to enliven my home?
Sleep on, ye beloved! it is better to restIn the halls of the dead, than to linger in life,Where the brain and the bosom with pains are oppressedAnd the soul is beleaguered by sorrow and strife;Sleep on! though no blossoms your homes are perfuming,There are calmness and freedom from discord and care,The lovely and beautiful daily are coming—And in my pale vesture I soon shall be there.
Sleep on, ye beloved! it is better to rest
In the halls of the dead, than to linger in life,
Where the brain and the bosom with pains are oppressed
And the soul is beleaguered by sorrow and strife;
Sleep on! though no blossoms your homes are perfuming,
There are calmness and freedom from discord and care,
The lovely and beautiful daily are coming—
And in my pale vesture I soon shall be there.
RELIGION.
———
J. HUNT, JR.
———
Religion, pure and undefiled,Before the Father’s sight in bliss—Who will the same in Heaven reward,Consists in holy deeds, like this:To heed, when cold Affliction’s shaftIs at the helpless Orphan hurled—The Widow visit,andto keepHimself unspotted from the world.
Religion, pure and undefiled,Before the Father’s sight in bliss—Who will the same in Heaven reward,Consists in holy deeds, like this:To heed, when cold Affliction’s shaftIs at the helpless Orphan hurled—The Widow visit,andto keepHimself unspotted from the world.
Religion, pure and undefiled,Before the Father’s sight in bliss—Who will the same in Heaven reward,Consists in holy deeds, like this:To heed, when cold Affliction’s shaftIs at the helpless Orphan hurled—The Widow visit,andto keepHimself unspotted from the world.
Religion, pure and undefiled,
Before the Father’s sight in bliss—
Who will the same in Heaven reward,
Consists in holy deeds, like this:
To heed, when cold Affliction’s shaft
Is at the helpless Orphan hurled—
The Widow visit,andto keep
Himself unspotted from the world.
TITUS QUINCTIUS FLAMININUS.[2]
Of all the truths at which we arrive through a calm and dispassionate study of history, none appears to me more certain than this, that, as regards the career and course of empires, the rise and fall of states, there neither is, nor has been, any such thing as Fortune; that from the beginning of time, to the events born of the present day, every minute particular, every seemingly unimportant incident—or, as men are fond to call it, accident—in the affairs of nations, is part and parcel of one grand, universal, all-pervading scheme of divine world-government, projected before the patriarch kings led forth their flocks to feed on pastures yet moist with the waters of the deluge, but not to be fulfilled until time itself shall have an end.
It can hardly, I think, fail to strike the least observant of readers, that unless the civilized world had been for a long period chained together under the stagnant, and in the main, peaceful despotism of the successors of the twelve Cæsars, it never would have been prepared to receive that tincture of letters, of humanity, and above all, of Christian faith, with which it became in the end so thoroughly imbued; that in every case, without one exception, it brought over to its own milder cultivation, milder religion, the fiercest and most barbarous of its heathen conquerors.
Not a province of the Western Roman empire but was overrun, devastated, conquered, permanently occupied by hordes of the wildest, crudest, most violent, most ignorant of mankind—Goths, Vandals, Huns, Vikings, and Norsemen, Jutes and Danes, tribes whose very names to this day stand as the types of unlettered force and unsparing outrage. Not a province of that empire, though of its present population not one hundredth part can trace an approximate descent from the original Roman colonists, so vast the influx of the Pagan invaders, but in the lapse of time conquered its conquerors by the arts of peace, and so became the germ of that Christian civilization, that Christian Liberty, which—though either, or both, may be temporarily obscured for the moment—we see, in the main, steadily and consistently pervading the Europe end America of the nineteenth century.
That this state of things could have existed, by any reasonable probability at this day, in the event of Darius or Xerxes having overrun and occupied Western Europe, with their oriental hordes—in the event of Carthage having subdued Rome, and filled Italy, Greece, Gaul, Spain, Britain, with her bloody fiend-worship, and her base Semitic trade-spirit—in the event of Mark Antony having won the day at Actium, and broken up the heritage of Rome, like that of Alexander, among a dozen jarring dynasties, instead of leaving it to be centralized into an almost universal empire—in the event of the Saracen having destroyed the paladins of Charles Martel at Tours—of the Turks having conquered the Mediterranean at Lepanto, or Continental Europe under the walls of Vienna—few will be found, I think, so hardy as to assert.
Strange, therefore, as it may appear at first sight, the first germs of existing institutions may be said to have been sown on the banks of the Ilissus, the Eurotas, and the Tiber; and the deity, whom the blind superstition of the early Romans venerated as the war-god Quirinus guarding the wave-rocked cradle of Rome’s twin founders, was, in truth, the Lord of Hosts, watching over the infancy of that peculiar and appointed people which should make smooth his way before him, and prepare the nations to receive the faith of civil and religious freedom.
For all this wonderful accomplishment of wonderful designs, however, we shall find that the instruments are purely human, although the ends may be divine—that, although the men are never wanting to do His work, when done it must be, it is for the most part, if not always, in blindness, in sin, in wrath, and in the madness of ambition, that they do that work, imagining themselves, vainly, busied about their own miserable ends; and for the doing it they are alone accountable. But not so of the nations, which, having no life hereafter, no individual identity in the world to come, meet their rewards or punishments here, where their virtues or their vices have required them, and thrive or perish as they work toward the completion of His infinite designs.
Nowhere, perhaps, in the whole course of history, is this supervision of the Most High, which even religious men are wont unthinkingly to call Fortune, more clearly visible, than in the events of the Second Punic War.
At home the republic, though undaunted and unequaled of all times in heroism, was weeping tears of blood at every pore, and resisting only with a persistency savoring almost of despair, abroad it was only by the exercise of sacrifices and self-denial almost superhuman, that she was enabled to maintain her foothold in her provinces of Sicily and Spain.
It seems to us, when we read how Capua, the noblest of her allied cities, opened her gates and made common cause with the enemy, how twelve of the thirty colonies of the Latin name refused their contingents of men and money; how all the north of Italy, then Cisalpine Gaul, from the Var to the Rubicon, was in tumultuous arms against her; how all the proud and magnificent cities of La Puglia and Calabria were leagued with the terrible invader; it seems, I say, as if one superadded call on her resources must have remained unanswered; one more war-trumpet blown by a new enemy must have sounded her death-note.
And there was one moment when it appeared that this contingency was close at hand. In the year of the city 540, while all the south of Italy was in arms with Hannibal from Capua down to the Gulf of Taranto, and all the north was in that tumultuous state of disorganization which with Celtic populations is ever the herald of coming insurrection, Sardinia suddenly broke out into armed and open rebellion. Sicily, also, in which Hiero, the fast and faithful friend of Rome, had lately died at a very advanced age, rejected the Roman alliance, and a war of extermination was raging in that beautiful island between the partisans of the two rival powers, and the forces which each could spare from the home conflict to aid its faction.
At this crisis, Philip of Macedon, the descendant of Alexander, and at that time the most powerful of European princes, entered into an alliance, offensive and defensive, with Hannibal, and would in the course of that very summer have crossed the Adriatic and invaded Italy with some five-and-twenty thousand men, sixteen thousand of whom were the hitherto unconquered phalanx, provided with that arm, in the greatest possible perfection, the want of which had robbed Hannibal of the fruits of all his great pitched battles—I mean an efficient artillery.
In this respect the Greeks were unsurpassed; the Greek engineers were the wonder of the world, as was subsequently shown at the siege of Syracuse; and how great soever the superiority of the Romans to the Carthagenians in this arm of service, it was as nothing to the skill of the Greek artillerists, and the excellence of the Greek machinery.
What this combination might—I should rather say might not—have effected, it were difficult to show; more difficult to show how Rome could have resisted it. For my part, having examined the question in all its lights, I am of opinion that, had this alliance gone into effect, and Philip acted with energy and steadiness of purpose equal to his bravery and ambition, Marcellus never would have taken Syracuse, nor Scipio conquered Spain; but that from both those countries triumphant reinforcements would have poured in to Hannibal, over the Alps, across the Straits of Messina, that an Italian Tama would have sealed the doom of Rome, and a Punic ploughshare razed the foundations of the capitol.
But such—it is well for humanity—was not to be the issue of the war. Philip’s ambassadors, returning with the treaty signed and ratified by Hannibal, were taken by the Roman squadron off the Calabrian coast, and sent to the city with their papers.
A year elapsed before the treaty could be renewed; and, meantime, the Romans, awakened to a perception of their danger, found means to enkindle the Ætolians and Illyrian pirates against Philip, and in the end to organize a Greek confederation against Macedon, which gave its active and ambitious sovereign plenty of work to do on his own side of the Adriatic. At a later period he found cause to repent that he had ever meditated intervention.
Such strokes of fortune, so historians call them, as that capture of the ambassadors of Philip, which, perhaps, saved Rome—as that strong gale which blew on Christmas Eve on Bantry Bay, dispersing Hoche’s armament to the four winds of heaven—such strokes, I say, of fortune, I hold to be the visible agencies and instruments of God’s providence, in the government of nations, to the welfare of the world.
From Rome that peril was averted. The arms of Macedon abstained, perforce, from the shores of devastated Italy. The arms of Syracuse, of Spain, were wrested from the hands which would have wielded them in the behalf of Carthage. The arms even of the unbridled Numidians were turned against the masters whom they had served so fatally for Rome. And out of the furnace of that scathing war, the giant form of the chosen republic emerged, without one hair singed, one thread of its vestments injured; and that, like the faithful sons of Israel, by the especial providence of the Almighty.
Years passed, and events hurried toward their consummation. Yet still, though from this date the tide of Hannibal’s affairs began to ebb, and that of Rome’s to flow with a healthier, prouder current, it was not until twelve more terrible campaigns had been fought out in vain, that the star of the great Carthaginian set in blood at Zama, and the name of Carthage herself, all but one brief spasmodic sound of fury and despair, went out and was forgotten from among the nations.
Then rousing herself, like a galled lioness, Rome went forth to avenge and conquer.
Hitherto she had fought at home for existence, henceforth she fought abroad for dominion; and abroad as at home, until her mission was accomplished and His work done fully to the end, she was invincible, as the fruit of her labors is eternal.
The war, which had been undertaken against Philip by the Romans shortly after his giving them the first offense, had languished from the beginning on both sides, and peace had been concluded between the contending parties some three years before the decisive victory of Zama.
So soon, however, as peace was concluded with Carthage, in the year of the city 552, B. C. 200, true to the latter part at least of her famous motto,