Love and aweMingled in the regard of Helon's eye,As he beheld the Stranger. He was notIn costly raiment clad, nor on His browThe symbol of a lofty lineage wore;No followers at His back, nor in His handBuckler, or sword, or spear—yet in His mienCommand 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 skyIn the serenest noon; His hair, unshorn,Fell to His shoulders; and His curling beardThe 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 handAnd laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean!"And lo! the scales fell from him, and his bloodCoursed with delicious coolness through his veins,And his dry palms grew moist, and on his browThe dewy softness of an infant's stole.His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell downProstrate at Jesus' feet, and worshiped him.N. P. Willis.
The golden light into the painter's roomStreamed richly, and the hidden colors stoleFrom the dark pictures radiantly forth,And in the soft and dewy atmosphere,Like forms and landscapes magical they lay.Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfullyUpon his canvas. There Prometheus layChained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus—The vulture at his vitals, and the linksOf the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;And, as the painter's mind felt through the dimRapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forthWith its far-reaching fancy, and with formAnd color clad them, hiss fine earnest eyeFlashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curlOf His thin nostril, and his quivering lipWere like the wingéd god's, breathing from his fight
"Bring me the captive, now!My hand feels skilful, and the shadows liftFrom my waked spirit airily and swift,And I could paint the bowUpon the bended heavens—around me playColors 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 longWill 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 knewA 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 flameConsumed my brain to ashes as it shone—By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!
"Ay—though it bid me rifleMy heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst—Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first—Though it should bid me stifleThe 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 appallYour heart, old man!—forgive—ha! on your livesLet him not faint! rack him till he revives!
"Vain—vain—give o'er. His eyeGlazes 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 eclipseConception with the scorn of those calm lips!
"Shivering! Hark! he muttersBrokenly 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 heartRules the unreined ambition! Let it onceBut play the monarch, and its haughty browGlows with a beauty that bewilders thought,And enthrones peace forever. Putting onThe very pomp of Lucifer, it turnsThe heart to ashes, and with not a springLeft in the bosom for the spirit's life,We look upon our splendor, and forgetThe thirst of which we perish!Oh, if earth be all, and heaven nothing,What thrice mocked fools are we!N. P. Willis.
The boy stood on the burning deckWhence all but him had fled;The flame that lit the battle's wreckShone round him o'er the dead.
The flames rolled on. He would not goWithout his father's word;That father faint in death below,His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud: "say, father, sayIf yet my task is done!"He knew not that the chieftain layUnconscious 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 deathIn 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 childLike banners in the sky.
Then came a burst of thunder sound—The boy—oh! where was he!Ask of the winds that far aroundWith fragments strewed the sea,
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,That well had borne their part;But the noblest thing that perished thereWas that young faithful heart!Mrs. Hemans.
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 toldIn 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.
"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.
The breaking waves dashed highOn a stern and rock-bound coast,And the woads against a stormy skyTheir giant branches tossed;
And the heavy night hung darkThe hills and waters o'er,When a band of Exiles moored their barkOn the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,They, the true-hearted, came;Not with the roll of the stirring drumsAnd the trumpet that sings of fame;
Not as the flying come,In silence and in fear;—They shook the depths of the desert's gloomWith 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 rangTo the anthem of the free!
The ocean eagle soaredFrom 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 hairAmidst 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.
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 huecame 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 ledAnd 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 arethey?If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this coldclay!
"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 faceHe 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.
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 braveMay think it were a pious partTo share Don Sancho's grave."
—"Whoever told this tale,The king hath rashness to repeat,"Cries Bernard, "here my gage I flingBefore the liar's feet!No treason was in Sancho's blood—No stain in mine doth lie:Below the throne what knight will ownThe 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 AlphonsoI saved at Roncesval—Your words, Lord King, are recompenseAbundant for it all.
"Your horse was down—your hope was flown—I saw the falchion shineThat soon had drunk your royal blood,Had I not ventured mine;But memory soon of service doneDeserteth the ingrate;You've thanked the son for life and crownBy the father's bloody fate.
"Ye swore upon your kingly faithTo 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 swordBehind 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 oneTo 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, Condé 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 realmThe jesting of that day!J. G. Lockhart.
One more unfortunate,Weary of breath,Rashly importunate,Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderlyLift her with care;Fashioned so slenderlyYoung, and so fair!
Look at her garmentsClinging like cerements;Whilst the wave constantlyDrips from her clothing:Take her up instantly,Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully;Think of her mournfullyGentle and humanly;Not of the stains of her—All that remains of herNow is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutinyInto her mutinyRash and undutiful:Past all dishonor,Death has left on herOnly the beautiful.
Loop up her tressesEscaped from the comb,Her fair auburn tresses;While wonderment guessesWhere was her home?
Who was her father?Who was her mother?Had she a sister?Had she a brother?Or was there a dearer oneStill, and a nearer oneYet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarityOf Christian charityUnder the sun!Oh! it was pitifulNear a whole city fullHome she had none!
Sisterly, brotherlyFatherly, motherlyFeelings had changed:Love by harsh evidence,Thrown from its eminence;Even God's providenceSeeming estranged.
When the lamps quiverSo far in the river,With many a lightFrom window and casement,From garret to basement,She stood with amazementHouseless by night.The bleak winds of MarchMade her tremble and shiverBut not the dark arch,Of the black flowing river.
Mad from life's historyGlad to death's mysterySwift to be hurled—Anywhere, anywhere,Out of the world—In she plunged boldly,No matter how coldlyThe rough river ran.
Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashioned so slenderlyYoung, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidlyStiffen too rigidly,Decently, kindly,smooth, and compose them;And her eyes, close them,Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staringThrough muddy impurity,As when with the daringLast look of despairingFixed on futurity,
Perishing gloomily,Spurred by contumelyCold inhumanity,Burning insanity,Into her rest.—Cross her hands humblyAs if praying dumbly,Over her breast!Owning her weakness,Her evil behavior,And leaving, with meekness,Her sins to her Saviour!T. Hood.
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 slaveAlong 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 thankFor 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 eavesThe brooding swallows cling,As if to show me their sunny backsAnd twit me with the Spring.
"Oh! but to breathe the breathOf the cowslip and primrose sweets—With the sky above my headAnd the grass beneath my feet;For only one short hourTo feel as I used to feelBefore 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 bedMy tears must stop, for every dropHinders needle and thread!"
With fingers weary and worn,With eyelids heavy and red,A woman sat in unwomanly ragsPlying 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.
In the tempest of life, when the waves and the galeAre 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 castHis 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.
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 mightTramp on eternal snows its way,And, through the ebon wails of nightHew down a passage unto day.Press on! if once and twice thy feetSlip back and stumble, harder try;From him who never dreads to meetDanger 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 falseTo-day, to-morrow she'll be true;Whom now she sinks, she now exaltsTaking old gifts, and granting new.The wisdom of the present hourMakes up for follies past and gone;—To weakness strength succeeds, and powerFrom 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 soulCome wealth, and honor, and renown.To thine own self be true, and keepThy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil;Press on! and thou shalt surely reapA heavenly harvest for thy toil.P. Benjamin.
The blessings which the weak and poor can scatterHave their own season. 'T is a little thingTo give a cup of water; yet its draughtOf cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips,May give a shock of pleasure to the frameMore exquisite than when sectarian juicerenews the life of joy in happiest hours.It is a little thing to speak a phraseOf common comfort which by daily useHas almost lost its sense; yet on the earOf him who thought to die unmourned 't will fallLike choicest music; fill the glazing eyeWith gentle tears; relax the knotted handTo know the bonds of fellowship again;And shed on the departing soul a senseMore precious than the benison of friendsAbout the honored death-bed of the rich,To him who else were lonely, that anotherOf the great family is near and feels.Sergeant Talfourd.
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 seaAnd not know my John?I might as well have asked some landsmanYonder down in the town.There's not an ass in all the parishBut he knows my John.How's my boy—my boy?
And unless you let me knowI'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 proudI'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.
The shades of night were falling fast,As through an Alpine village passedA 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 rungThe accents of that unknown tongue!"Excelsior!"
In happy homes he saw the lightOf 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 restThy 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 heavenwardThe pious monks of Saint BernardUttered 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 iceThat 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.
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-morrowFind us further than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting;And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral 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 usWe can make our lives sublime,And, departing, leave behind usFootprints 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.
All is finished, and at lengthHas come the bridal dayOf 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 wideWith ceaseless flowHis beard of snowHeaves 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 beThe 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 feelThe 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 crowdThere 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 fairShe lies within those arms, that pressHer form with many a soft caressOf 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.