Sail forth into the sea of life,O gentle, loving, trusting wife,And safe from all adversity,Upon the bosom of that seaThy comings and thy goings be!For gentleness, and love, and trust,Prevail o'er angry wave and gust;And in the wreck of noble livesSomething 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.
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 complexionCannot forfeit Nature's claim;Skins may differ, but affectionDwells in white and black the same.
Why did all-creating NatureMake 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 smartedFor 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 urgesAgents 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 vexationsAfric's sons should undergo,Fixed their tyrants' habitationWhere 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 usTo the man-degrading mart;All, sustained by patience, taught usOnly by a broken heart.
Deem our nation brutes no longer,Till some reason ye shall findWorthier of regard, and strongerThan the color of our kind.Slaves of gold! whose sordid dealingsTarnish all your boasted powers,Prove that you have human feelings,Ere you proudly question ours.W. Cowper.
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.
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 reportOf 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 bondOf brotherhood is severed as the flaxThat falls asunder at the touch of fire.He finds his fellow guilty of a skinNot colored like his own; and having powerTo enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause,Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.Lands intersected by a narrow frithAbhor each other. Mountains interposedMake enemies of nations, who had elseLike 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 sweatWith 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 wealthThat sinews, bought and sold, has ever earned.No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart'sJust 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 waveThat parts us, are emancipate and loosed.Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungsReceive our air, that moment they are free;They touch our country, and their shackles fall.That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proudAnd jealous of the blessing. Spread it, then,And let it circulate through every veinOf all your empire; that, where Britain's powerIs felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.W. Cowper.
Blaze with your serried columns!I will not bend the knee!The shackles ne'er again shall bindThe arm which now is free.I've mailed it with the thunder,When the tempest muttered low;And where it falls, ye well may dreadThe lightning of its blow!
I've scared ye in the city,I've scalped ye on the plain;Go, count your chosen, where they fellBeneath 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.
Roll—roll!—How gladly swell the distant notesFrom 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 callPrompts 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 againTo 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 eyesAnd wept beside his pall!"G. W. Patten.
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 ofFrance!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 dinOf fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin!The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André'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 clovenmail.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.
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 aroundTo 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 childMy 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 nameTo 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 heaviestmourning;Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risenMy body will be out of pain—my soul be out of prison),I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shineOn 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 walkAnd 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 downOn 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.
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 deathMy 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 breastA 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 heldMy 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.
Once more I breathe the mountain air; once moreI tread my own free hills! My lofty soulThrows all its fetters off; in its proud flight,'T is like the new-fledged eaglet, whose strong wingSoars to the sun it long has gazed upon—With eye undazzled. O! ye mighty raceThat stand like frowning giants, fixed to guardMy own proud land; why did ye not hurl downThe thundering avalanche, when at your feetThe base usurper stood? A touch, a breath,Nay, even the breath of prayer, ere now, has broughtDestruction on the hunter's head; and yetThe tyrant passed in safety. God of heaven!Where slept thy thunderbolts?
O LIBERTY!Thou choicest gift of Heaven, and wanting whichLife is as nothing; hast thou then forgotThy native home? Must the feet of slavesPollute this glorious scene? It cannot be.Even as the smile of Heaven can pierce the depthsOf these dark caves, and bid the wild flowers bloomIn spots where man has never dared to tread;So thy sweet influence still is seen amidThese beetling cliffs. Some hearts still beat for thee,And bow alone to Heaven; thy spirit lives,Ay,—and shall live, when even the very nameOf tyrant is forgot.
Lo! while I gazeUpon the mist that wreathes yon mountain's brow,The sunbeam touches it, and it becomesA crown of glory on his hoary head;O! is not this a presage of the dawnOf freedom o'er the world? Hear me, then, brightAnd beaming Heaven! while kneeling thus, I vowTo live for Freedom, or with her to die!
O! with what pride I usedTo walk these hills, and look up to my GodAnd 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 lovedIts very storms! Yes, I have sat and eyedThe thunder breaking from His cloud, and smiledTo 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 trackUp hither winds, whose base is but the browTo such another one, with scanty roomFor two abreast to pass? Overtaken thereBy 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 stormsAre summer flaws to those of mine, and justHave 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.
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 hearA spirit in your echoes answer me,And bid your tenant welcome to his homeAgain!—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 smileMakes glad, whose frown is terrible, whose forms,Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wearOf awe divine. Ye guards of liberty,I'm with you once again!—I call to youWith all my voice!—I hold my hands to you,To show they still are free. I rush to youAs though I could embrace you!—Scaling yonder peak,I saw an eagle wheeling near its browO'er the abyss;—his broad-expanded wingsLay 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. InstinctivelyI bent my brow; yet kept he rounding stillHis airy circle, as in the delightOf measuring the ample range beneathAnd round about; absorbed, he heeded notThe death that threatened him. I could not shoot!—'T was Liberty! I turned my bow aside,And let him soar away!J. S. Knowles.
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 bentBy 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 Gothichall.
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-à-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.
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 heardMingling with that of the soaring bird,Who flingeth abroad his matin loudAs he freshens his wing in the cold, gray cloud.
But when evening has quitted her sheltering yew,Drowsily flying, and weaving anewHer 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.
Hast thou a charm to stay the morning starIn his steep course? So long he seems to pauseOn thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc!The Arve and Arveiron at thy baseRave 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 praiseThou 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 dawnCo-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, jaggéd rocks,Forever shattered, and the same forever?Who gave you your invulnerable life,Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joyUnceasing 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 heavenBeneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sunClothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowersOf 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 sereneInto the depths of clouds, that veil thy breast—Thou too, again, stupendous mountain! thouThat as I raise my head, awhile bowed lowIn adoration, upward from thy baseSlow 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.
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 paceNeck 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 nearLokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;At Düffeld, '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 awayThe haze, as some bluff river headland its sprays
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent backFor my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;And one eye's black intelligence,—ever that glanceO'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anonHis 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 wheezeOf 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 Tongrés, 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 roanRolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;And there was my Roland to bear the whole weightOf 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 roundAs 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.
'T was on the battle-field; and the cold pale moonLooked 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 foeLay 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 heartTook 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.
Hoarse wintry blasts a solemn requiem sungTo the departed day,Upon whose bierThe velvet pall of midnight lead been flung,And Nature mourned through one wide hemisphereSilence 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 crySpeaks a conflagration nigh!—See! yon glare upon the skyConfirms 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 winThe tributary meed of grateful hearts.From pavement rough, or frozen ground,His engine's rattling wheels resound,And soon before his eyesThe 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 wallThe 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.
Speak gently: it is better farTo rule by love than fear.Speak gently: let no harsh words marThe good we might do here.
Speak gently; love doth whisper lowThe 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 theyWill 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;—knowThey must have toiled in vain;Perchance unkindness made them so;—O! win them back again.
Speak gently! He who gave His lifeTo bend man's stubborn will,When elements were fierce with strife,Said to them, "Peace! be still."
Speak gently: 't is a little thingDropped in the heart's deep well;The good, the joy which it may bring,Eternity shall tell.Anonymous.
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 mindDisturbed, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 't is said, when all were fired,Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,From the supporting myrtles roundThey snatched her instruments of sound,
And, as they oft had heard apartSweet 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;—