Book :___ (bpigMS COPYRIGHT DEPOSin 1 I HAWTHORNE'S 230 &b>S~l* School and College RECITER. ■u "JUL S5J89! 2*> :IN6t ( New Yoek : HUEST AND COMPANY, Publishers. Copyright 1891, By HURST AND COMPANY. v , w he feels the bottom ; Now on dry earth he stands ; Now round him throng the Fathers To press his gory hands ; And now, with shouts and clapping, And noise of weeping loud, He enters through the River-Gate, Borne by the joyous crowd. DECISIVE INTEGRITY. William Wirt. The man who is so conscious of the rectitude of his in- tentions as to be willing to open his bosom to the inspection of the world is in possession of one of the strongest pillars of a decided character. The course of such a man will be firm and steady, because he has nothing to fear from the world and is sure of the approbation and support of Heaven. While he who is conscious of secret and dark designs, which, if known, would blast him, is perpetually shrinking and dodging from public observation, and is afraid of all around, and much more of all above him. Such a man, may, indeed, pursue his iniquitous plans stead- ily; he may waste himself to a skeleton in the guilty pursuit; but it is impossible that he can pursue them with the same health-inspiring confidence and exulting alacrity with him Il8 DECISIVE INTEGRITY. who feels, at every step, that he is in the pursuit of honest ends, by honest means. The clear, unclouded brow, the open countenance, the brilliant eye which can look an honest man steadfastly, yet courteously, in the face, the healthfully beating heart, and the firm, elastic step, belong to him whose bosom is free from guile, and who knows that all his motives and purposes are pure and right. Why should such a man falter in his course? He may be slandered; he may be deserted by the world; but he has that within which will keep him erect, and enable him to move onward in his course with his eyes fixed on Heaven, which he knows will not desert him. Let your first step, then, in that discipline which is to give you decision of character, be the heroic determination to be honest men, and to preserve this character through every vicissitude of fortune, and in every relation which connects you with society. I do not use this phrase, ''honest men," in the narrow sense, merely, of meeting your pecuniary engagements and paying your debts ; for this the common pride of gentlemen will constrain you to do. I use it in its larger sense of discharging all your duties, both public and private, both open and secret, with the most scrupulous, Heaven-attesting integrity; in that sense, farther, which drives from the bosom all little, dark, crooked, sordid, de- basing considerations of self, and substitutes in their place a bolder, loftier, and nobler spirit; one that will dispose you to consider yourself as born, not so much for yourself as for your country and your fellow-creatures, and which will lead you to act on every occasion sincerely, justly, generously, magnanimously. There is a morality on a larger scale^ perfectly consistent with a just attention to your own affairs, which it would be the height of folly to neglect; a generous expansion, a proud elevation and conscious greatness of character, which is the best preparation for a decided course in every situation into which you can be thrown; and it is to this high and noble tone of character that I would have you to aspire. I would not have you resemble those weak and meager streamlets which lose their direction at every petty impediment that presents itself, and stop, and turn back, and creep around, and search out every little channel through which they may wind their feeble and sickly course. Nor yet would I have you resemble the headlong torrent that carries havoc in its THE RAVEN. 119 mad career. But I would have you like the ocean, that noblest emblem of majestic decision, which, in the calmest hour, still heaves its resistless might of waters to the shore, filling the heavens, day and night, with the echoes of its sub- lime declaration of independence, and tossing and sporting on its bed with an imperial consciousness of strength that laughs at opposition. It is this depth, and weight, and power, and purity of character, that I would have you re- semble; and I would have you, like the waters of the ocean, to become the purer by your own action. THE RAVEN. Edgar A. Poe. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, — While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, "tapping at my chamber door. Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to bor- row From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore — Nameless here forever more. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain, Thrill'd me — fill'd me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeat- ing, ' 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ; That it is, and nothing more." 120 THE RAVEN. Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rap- ping, m And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here I open'd wide the door; Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wonder- ing, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word "Lenore!" This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burn- ing, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than be- fore. " Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window- lattice; Let me see then what there at is, and this mystery explore, — Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore ; — 'Tis the wind, and nothing more." Open then I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepp'd a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he ; not an instant stopp'd or stay'd he ; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door, — Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door, — Perch'd, and sat, and nothing more. THE RAVEN. 121 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorne and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven ; Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore, Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore ?" Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " Much I marvel'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore ; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was bless'd with seeing bird above his chamber door, Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door. With such name as " Nevermore ! " But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did out- pour. Nothing further then he utter'd — not a feather then he flutter'd — Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, " Other friends have flown before — On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, " Nevermore ! " Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken, " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Follow'd fast and followed faster, till his song one burden bore, — Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, Of " Nevermore — nevermore ! " But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in front of bird, and bust, and door, 122 THE RAVEN. Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking " Nevermore ! " This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core ; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press — ah ! nevermore ! Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an un- seen censer, Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. " Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee Respite — respite and nepenthe from the memories of Lenore ! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Le- nore ! " Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " " Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted on this desert land enchanted — On this home by horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I im- plore ! " Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " " Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! By that heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore, Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, AMBITION. I23 It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore ; Clasp a fair and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore ! " Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I shrieked, upstarting — " Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore ! " Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above my door ! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door ! " Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door ; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dream- And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor ; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted — nevermore ! AMBITION. Henry Clay. I have been accused of ambition in presenting this meas- ure, — inordinate ambition! If I had thought of myself only, I should have never brought it forward. I know well the perils to which I expose myself, — the risk of alienating faithful and valued friends, with but little prospect of making new ones, if any new ones could compensate for the loss of those we have long tried and loved; and the hon- est misconception, both of friends and foes. Ambition! If I had listened to its soft and seducing whispers, if I had yielded myself to the dictates of a cold, calculating, and pru- dential policy, I would have stood still. I might have 124 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. silently gazed on the raging storm, enjoyed its loudest thun- ders, and left those who are charged with the care of the vessel of state to conduct it as they could. I have been heretofore often unjustly accused of ambition. Low, grov- eling souls, who are utterly incapable of elevating them- selves to the higher and nobler duties of pure patriotism, beings who, forever keeping their own selfish aims in view, decide all public measures by their presumed influence on their aggrandizement, judge me by the venal rule which they prescribe to themselves. I have given to the winds those false accusations, as I consign that which now im- peaches my motives. I have no desire for office, not even for the highest. The most exalted is but a prison, in which the incumbent daily receives his cold, heartless visitants, marks his weary hours, and is cut off from the practical en- joyment of all the blessings of genuine freedom. I am no candidate for any office in the gift of the people of these States, united or separated. I never wish, never expect to be. Pass this bill, tranquilize the country, restore confi- dence and affection in the Union, and I am willing to go home to Ashland, and renounce public service forever. I should there find, in its groves, under its shades, on its lawns, amid my flocks and herds, in the bosom of my family, sincerity and truth, attachment and fidelity, and gratitude, which I have not always found in the walks of public life. Yes, I have ambition ; but it is the ambition of being the humble instrument, in the hands of Providence, to reconcile a divided people, once more to revive concord and harmony in a distracted land, — the pleasing ambition of contemplat- ing the glorious spectacle of a free, united, prosperous, and fraternal people. ' THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. William Cullen Bryant. The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 125 The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain, Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the briar-rose and the orchid died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. As now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side: In the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; 126 THE VENOMOUS BOWL. Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. THE VENOMOUS BOWL. N. J. Clodfetter. Published by permission of the author. Ask not of the man that is seeking to tell, Of the woe of the cup, and the potion of hell, But go to the den where all of its stains, Are sought by the bibber to poison his brains. Oh! the venomous bowl, That destroys the soul, May we hasten the day, may we hasten the day, When all of this curse shall be banished away. There, see the worn tippler throw down his last cent, And sigh as he quaffs for the pennies he's spent; Then think of his family all tattered in rags, And wife broken-hearted so famished she begs. Oh! the venomous bowl, That destroys the soul, May we hasten the day, may we hasten the day, When all of this curse shall be banished away. Behold in your gaze 'round the silvery lamps, Sages, coxcombs, commingling with ragged old tramps, And every shrill echo that falls on the walls, Comes from lips steeped in "hell " and imbued with its galL Oh! the venomous bowl, That destroys the soul, May we hasten the day, may we hasten the day, When all of this curse shall be banished away. A son may be called to this damnable place, With innocence glowing all over his face, There a generous friend perchance he may meet, To a bumper or two his friendship will greet; Oh! the venomous bowl, That destroys the soul, May we hasten the day, may we hasten the day, When all of this curse shall be banished away. HAMLETS ADVICE TO A SON GOING TO TRAVEL. I27 Just the first step of vice he has then taken up, And he yields to the glow of the treacherous cup, As he lingers around for the venomous draught, Till a dozen or more he has lavishly quaffed. Oh! the venomous bowl, That destroys the soul, May we hasten the day, may we hasten the day, When all of this curse shall be banished away. He is now o'er the gulf where inebriates fell, And ready to plunge in the fathomless hell, Where morals, and character, all noble fame, Precipitate down into billows of shame. Oh! the venomous bowl, That destroys the soul, May we hasten the day, may we hasten the day, When all of this curse shall be banished away. Next, visit the inebriate's home that's so dim, And trace all its darkness and gloom back to him Whose blighted avowals, in earlier youth, Were lit up with joy, and blended with truth. Oh! the venomous bowl, That destroys the soul, May we hasten the day, may we hasten the day, When all of this curse shall be banished away. But alas! all his vows he has since yielded up, For the wantonous wretch, and the cursed wine cup, And led his fair wife from expected delight, To forsake all that once lit her future so bright. Oh! the venomous bowl, That destroys the soul. May we hasten the day, may we hasten the day, When all of this curse shall be banished away. HAMLET'S ADVICE TO A SON GOING TO TRAVEL. Give thy thoughts no tongue Nor any unproportion'd thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, 128 THE SENATOR'S PLEDGE. Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd, unfledged comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, Bear 't that the opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express'd in fancy ; rich, not gaudy, For the apparel oft proclaims the man; And they in France, of the best rank and station, Are most select and generous, chief in that. Neither a borrower, nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all — to thine own self be true : And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. THE SENATOR'S PLEDGE. Charles Sumner. The trust conferred on me is one of the most weighty which a citizen can receive. It concerns the grandest inter- ests of our own Commonwealth, and also of the Union in which we are an indissoluble link. Like every post of emi- nent duty, it is a post of eminent honor. A personal am- bition, such as I cannot confess, might be satisfied to possess it; but, when I think what it requires, I am obliged to say that its honors are all eclipsed by its duties. Your appointment finds me in a private station, with which I am entirely content. For the first time in my life I am called to political office. With none of the experience possessed by others, to smooth the way of labor, I might well hesitate. But I am cheered by the generous confidence which throughout a lengthened contest persevered in sus- taining me, and by the conviction, that, amid all seeming differences of party, the sentiments of which I am the known advocate, and which led to my original selection as candidate, are dear to the hearts of the people throughout this Commonwealth. I derive also a most grateful conscious- ness of personal independence from the circumstance, THE SENATORS PLEDGE. I2Q which I deem it frank and proper thus publicly to declare and place on record, that this office comes to me unsought and undesired. Acknowledging the right of my country to the service of her sons wherever she choses to place them, and with a heart full of gratitude that a sacred cause is permitted to triumph through me, I now accept the post of senator. I accept it as the servant of Massachusetts, mindful of the sentiments solemnly uttered by her successive legislatures, of the genius which inspires her history, and of the men, her perpetual pride and ornament, who breathed into her that breath of liberty which early made her an example to her sister States. In such a service, the way, though new to my footsteps, is illumined by lights which cannot be missed. I accept it as the servant of the Union, bound to study and maintain the interests of all parts of our country with equal patriotic care, to discountenance every effort to loosen any of those ties by which our fellowship of States is held in fraternal company, and to oppose all sectionalism, in whatso- ever form, — whether in unconstitutional efforts by the North to carry so great a boon as freedom into the slave States; in unconstitutional efforts by the South, aided by Northern allies, to carry the sectional evil of slavery into the free States; or in any efforts whatsoever to extend the sectional domination of slavery over the national government. With me the Union is twice blessed, — first, as powerful guardian of the repose and happiness of thirty-one States clasped by the endearing name of country ; and next, as model and beginning of that all-embracing federation of States, by which unity, peace, and concord will finally be organized among the nations. Nor do I believe it possible, whatever the delusion of the hour, that any part can be permanently lost from its well- compacted bulk. E Pluribus Unum is stamped upon the national coin, the national territory, and the national heart. Though composed of many parts united into one, the Union is separable only by a crash which shall destroy the whole. Entering now upon the public service, I venture to be- speak, for what I do or say, that candid judgment which I trust always to have for others, but which I am well aware the prejudices of party too rarely concede. I may fail in ability, but not in sincere effort to promote the general weal. In the conflict of opinion natural to the atmosphere 130 THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. of liberal institutions, I may err ; but I trust never to for- get the prudence which should temper firmness, or the mod- esty which becomes the consciousness of right. If I decline to recognize as my guides the leading men of to-day, I shall feel safe while I follow the master principles which the Union was established to secure, leaning for support on the great triumvirate of American freedom, — Washington, Franklin, and Jefferson. And, since true politics are simply morals applied to public affairs, I shall find constant assist- ance from those everlasting rules of right and wrong, which are a law alike to individuals and communities. THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. " Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest, Comest to daunt me ! Wrapt not in Eastern balms, But with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me ? " Then, from those cavernous eyes Pale flashes seemed to rise, As when the Northern skies Gleam in December ; And, like the water's flow Under December's snow, Came a dull voice of woe From the heart's chamber. " I was a Viking old ! My deeds, though manifold, No Skald in song has told, No Saga taught thee ! Take heed, that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man's curse ! For this I sought thee. THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 131 " Far in the Northern land, By the wild Baltic's strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the ger-falcon : And, with my skates fast-bound, Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on. " Oft to his frozen lair Tracked I the grisly bear, While from my path the hare Fled like a shadow ; Oft through the forest dark, Followed the were-wolf 's bark, Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow. " But when I older grew, Joining a corsair's crew, O'er the dark sea I flew With the marauders. Wild was the life we led ; Many the souls that sped, Many the hearts that bled, By our stern orders. " Many a wassail-bout Wore the long Winter out ; Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing, As we the Berserk's tale Measured in cups of ale, Draining the oaken pail, Filled to o'erflowing. " Once as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea, Soft eyes did gaze on me, Burning yet tender ; And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendor. 132 THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. "I wooed the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest's shade Our vows were plighted. Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted. " Bright in her father's hall Shields gleamed upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrels all, Chanting his glory ; When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter's hand, Mute did the minstrels stand To hear my story. " While the brown ale he quaffed, Loud then the champion laughed, And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly. " She was a Prince's child, I but a Viking wild, And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded ! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew's flight, Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded ? " Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me, — Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen ! — When on the white sea-strand, Waving his armed hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen. THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 133 " Then launched they to the blast, Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us ; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us. "And as to catch the gale Round veered the flapping sail, Death ! was the helmsman's hail Death without quarter ! Mid-ships with iron keel Struck we her ribs of steel ; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water ! "As with his wings aslant, Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt, With his prey laden, So toward the open main, Beating to sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden. " Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o'er, Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to leaward ; There for my lady's bower Built I the lofty tower, Which, to this very hour, Stands looking seaward. " There lived we many years ; Time dried the maiden's tears ; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother ; Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies ; Ne'er shall the sun arise On such another ! 134 THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. " Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen ! Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful ! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, Oh, death was grateful ! " Thus, seamed with many scars, Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended ! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, Skoal! to the Northland ! skoal! "* — Thus the tale ended. THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea ; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm, With his pipe in his mouth, And watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now west, now south. Then up and spake an old sailor, Had sailed the Spanish main, "I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. * In Scandinavia this is the customary salutation when drinking a health. I have slightly changed the orthography of the word, in order to preserve the correct pronunciation. THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. I35 "Last night, the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see ! " The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the northeast ; The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain, The vessel in its strength ; She shuddered and paused, like a frightened steed, Then leaped her cable's length. " Come hither ! come hither ! my little daughter, And do not tremble so ; For I can weather the roughest gale, That ever wind did blow." He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast ; He cut a rope from a broken spar And bound her to the mast. " O father ! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be ? " "'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ! " And he steered for the open sea. " O father ! I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it be ? " "Some ship in distress that cannot live In such an angry sea ! " "O father ! I see a gleaming light, O say, what may it be ?" But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow In his fixed and glassy eyes. 136 THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be ; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land ; It was the sound of the trampling surf, On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board ; Like a vessel of glass, she strove and sank. Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes ; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow ! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe ! THE REIGN OF TERROR. 137 THE REIGN OF TERROR. Lord Macaulay. Now began that strange period known by the name of the Reign of Terror. The Jacobins had prevailed. This was their hour and the power of darkness. The convention was subjugated and reduced to profound silence on the highest questions of state. The sovereignty passed to the Commit- tee of Public Safety. To the edicts framed by that com- mittee, the representative assembly did not venture to offer even the species of opposition which the ancient Parliament had frequently offered to the mandates of the ancient kings. Then came those days, when the most barbarous of all codes was administered by the most barbarous of all tribu- nals ; when no man could greet his neighbors, or say his prayers, or dress his hair, without danger of committing a capital crime ; when spies lurked in every corner ; when the guillotine was long and hard at work every morning ; when the jails were filled as close as the hold of a slave ship ; and the gutters ran foaming with blood into the Seine. No mercy was shown to sex or age. The number of young lads and of girls of seventeen who were murdered by that execrable government, is to be reckoned by hundreds. Babies, torn from the breast, were tossed from pike to pike along the Jacobin ranks. One champion of liberty had his pockets well stuffed with ears. Another swaggered about with the finger of a little child in his hat. A few months had sufficed to degrade France below the level of New Zea- land. It is absurd to say that any amount of public danger can justify a system like this. It is true that great emergencies call for activity and vigilance ; it is true that they justify severity which, in ordinary times, would deserve the name of cruelty. But indiscriminate severity can never, under any circumstances, be useful. It is plain that the whole efficacy of punishment depends on the care with which the guilty are distinguished. Punishment which strikes the guilty and the innocent promiscuously operates merely like a pesti- lence or a great convulsion of nature, and has no more ten- dency to prevent offenses, than the cholera, or an earth- quake, like that of Lisbon, would have. The great queen who so long held her own against foreign 138 A RILEY ECHO. and domestic enemies, against temporal and spiritual arms ; the great Protector who governed with more than regal power, in despite both of royalists and republicans ; the great King who, with a beaten army and an exhausted treasury, defended his little dominions to the last against the united efforts of Russia, Austria, and France ; with what scorn would they have heard that it was impossible for them to strike a salutary terror into the disaffected, without sending school-boys and school-girls to death by cart loads and boat loads ! To behead people by scores, without caring whether they are guilty or innocent ; to wring money out of the rich by the help of jailers and executioners ; to rob the public creditor, and put him to death if he remonstrates ; to take loaves by force out of the bakers' shops ; to clothe and mount soldiers by seizing on one man's wool and linen, and on another man's horses and saddles, without compensation, is of all modes of governing the simplest and most obvious. Of its morality we, at present, say nothing. But, surely, it requires no capacity beyond that of a barbarian or a child. By means like those which we have described, the Com- mittee of Public Safety undoubtedly succeeded, for a short time, in enforcing profound submission, and in raising im- mense funds. But to enforce submission by butchery, and to raise funds by spoliation, is not statesmanship. The real statesman is he who, in troubled times, keeps down the tur- bulent without unnecessarily harassing the well-affected ; and who, when great pecuniary resources are needed, pro- vides for the public exigencies without violating the security of property and drying up the sources of future prosperity. A RILEY ECHO. When the crop is on the market and the cash is in your sock, And you hear the clink and jingle of the key turned in the lock, And the clinking of the " pennies " and the clanking of the " tens," And the groceryman is paid up and no more his bill he sen's; ARCHIE DEAN. 139 O, it's then's the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best, When he rises from his supper, then downward pulls his vest; As he smokes his pipe in comfort and then goes and winds the clock, When the crop is on the market and the cash is in his sock. There's something kind o' cheerful-like about the farmer's eyes When he knows the summer's over and he doesn't have to rise About the time the daylight's a-peepin' thro' the gloom, And work until the moon's up 'mid the grain that's all in bloom; But instead he sorter calcalates he'll hook old " Buck " and " Jess " To his cutter in the evenin', and put on his Sunday dress; Then go a courtin' Lizer, with her apron and new frock, When the crop is on the market and the cash is in his sock. O, the huskin' and the spellin' bees — the winter's harmless fun; The raspin' of the fiddle when the dancin' is begun; The jingle of the sleigh bells, your best gal in the sled; The kissin' and the huggin' when the ole folks are in bed; The roastin' of the chestnuts, the neighbors droppin' in; The eatin' of the apples, drinkin' cider from a tin; O, it sets my heart a-prancin', like a struttin' turkey cock, When the crop is on the market and the cash is in the sock. ARCHIE DEAN. Gail Hamilton. Would you laugh, or would you cry ? Would you break your heart and die, If you had a dashing lover Like my handsome Archie Dean, And he should forget his wooing By the moon, the stars, the sun, To love me evermore, And should go to Kittie Carrol, Who has money, so they say — I4-0 ARCHIE DEAN. And with eyes love-filled as ever Win her heart, that's like a feather, Vowing all he had before ? Prithee, tell me, would you cry, And grow very sad and die ? Always, in the old romances That dear Archie read to me, Those that pleased my girlish fancy, There was always sure to be One sweet maiden with a lover Who was never, never true; And when they were widely parted, Then she died, poor, broken-hearted, And did break with grief at last, Like a lily in the blast — Say, would you, if you were me ? True, I do love Archie Dean, Love him, love him, oh ! how true; But see, my eyes are bright, And my lips and cheeks are red (Archie Dean put that in my head!) And I don't know what to do, Whether to lie down and weep Till the red is faded out, And my eyes are dull and dim, Maybe blind, and all for him (I could do it, I've no doubt). Or loop up my pretty hair With the brightest knots of ribbon, And the very sweetest roses, And go to the village fair, Where he'll be with Kittie Carrol, And will see me dance the wildest With some bonny lad that's there, Just to show how much I care. Archie Dean! Archie Dean! 'Tis the sweetest name I know; It is writ on my heart, but o'er it now Is drifting the cold snow. Archie Dean! Archie Dean! I ARCHIE DEAN. 141 There's a pain in my heart while I speak; I wonder if always the thought of your name Will make me so saddened and weak! Archie Dean! Archie Dean! I remember that you said Your name should be mine and I should be The happiest bride e'er wed. I little thought of a day like this, When I could wish I were dead. But there goes the clock, the hour is near When I must be off to the fair; I'll go and dance, and dance, and dance, With the bonny lads who are there, In my dress of blue, with crimson sash, Which he always liked to see. I'll whirl before him as fast as I can, I'll laugh and chatter — yes, that is my plan — And I know that before the morn He'll wish that Kittie Carrol had never been born, And that he could be sitting again Close by my side in the green meadow lane, Vowing his love in a tender strain. But when I see him coming, I'll turn my eyes with softest glance On somebody else — then off in the dance — And if he should happen to get the chance For saying how heartily sorry he is For having been false to me he loves true, I won't hear a word that he says, would you? What you'd better do, Jenny Marsh, Break your heart for Archie Dean? Jennie Marsh! Jennie Marsh! Not a bit. 'Tis the very thing he's after. He would say to Kittie Carrol, With careless, mocking laughter, Here's a pretty little chick, Who has died for love of me, 'Tis a pity. But what is a man to do When the girls beset him so? If he gives a nosegay here, 142 ARCHIE DEAN. If he calls another dear, If he warbles to a third A love ditty, Why, the darling little innocents Take it all to heart. Alack-a-day! Ah! she was a pretty maiden, A little too fond-hearted, Eyes a little too love-laden, But, really, when we parted — Well, she died for love of me, Kittie Carrol. Don't you see You are giving him to Kittie Just as sure as sure can be. 'Tis the way he takes to woo her, By slyly showing to her What a dashing, slashing beau is at her feet And of all the pretty pratings About a woman's deathless loving, And her ever-faithful proving, And her womanly devotion, I've a very wicked notion That to carry off the one That Mary here is sighing for, And Fanny there is dying for, Is more than half the happiness, And nearly all the fun. Now if I were a man, Jennie Marsh! Jennie Marsh! If I only were a man For a day — I'm a maiden, so I can't Always do just what I want, But if I were a man, I'd say, Archie Dean, go to thwider ! What's the use of sighs, I wonder, Your oaths and vows and mutterings Are awfully profane. Hie away to Kittie Carrol, Your loss is but a gain. Aren't there fishes still a-swimming Just as luscious every way As those that hissed and sputtered ARCHIE DEAN. 143 In the saucepan yesterday? But, Jennie, charming Jennie, You're a tender little woman, And I expect you'll say that is So shockingly inhuman; And, besides, you'll never dare, You little witch, to swear! But, when you're at the fair, Don't flirt too far with bonny lads, Because, perhaps, you'll rue it; And do not dance too merrily, Because he may see through it; And don't put on an air as if You're mortally offended; You'll be a feather in his cap, And then your game is ended. And if, with Kittie on his arm, You meet him on the green, Don't agonize your pretty mouth With Mr. Arthur Dean; But every throb of pride or love Be sure to stifle, As if your intercourse with him Were but the merest trifle; And make believe with all your might You'd not care a feather For all the Carrols in the world, And Archie Dean together. Take this advice, and get him back, My darling, if you can; But if you can't, why, right-about, And take another man. What I did. I went to the fair with Charlie — With handsome Charlie Green, Who has loved me many a year, And vowed his loving with a tear — A tear of the heart, I mean. But I never gave a smile to him Until to-night, When full in sight Of Kittie Carrol and Archie Dean. 144 ARCHIE DEAN. Now Archie knows that Charlie has A deal of money, and has lands, And his wealth is little to him Without my heart and hand. So I smiled on Charlie, And I danced with Charlie, When I knew that Archie's eyes Were fixed on me as in a trance. I once caught them in the dance, And I could have fallen at his feet, Dear Archie Dean! But there were Kittie Carrol and Charlie Green, And when Archie came to me, As I was sure he would — And with softest tone and glance — Do you think I dropped my eyes, With a glad surprise? No, no, indeed! That would not do. Straight I looked into his face, With no broken-hearted grace. Oh, he could not see my pain — And I told him he must wait A little while Till I had danced with Charlie Green; Then I cast a smile On Harry Hill and Walter Brown. Oh, the look he cast on me As his eyes fell sadly down! He said he something had to say, But I laughed and turned away, For my sight was growing dim, Saying, I would not forget That I was to dance with him. He did not go to Kittie Carrol, Who was sitting all alone, Watching us with flashing eyes; But he slowly turned away To a corner in the dark. There he waited patiently, And, he said, most wearily, For the dancing to be done; And, although my heart was aching, ARCHIE DEAN. 145 And very nigh to breaking, It was quite a bit of fun Just to see him standing there Watching me. Oh, Archie Dean, What a picture of despair; Why not hie to Kittie Carrol? She has money, so they say, And has held it out for lovers Many and many a weary day. She is rather plain, I know — Crooked nose and reddish hair, And her years are more than yours. Archie Dean! Archie Dean! (He is not rich like Charlie Green.) What does love for beauty care? Hie away to Kittie Carrol; Ask her out to dance with you, Or she'll think that you are fickle And your vows of love untrue, And maybe you'll get the mitten: Then — ah, then — what will you do? Well, he sighed at me and I laughed at him As we danced away together. He pressed my hand, but I heeded not, And whirled off like a feather. He whispered something about the past, But I did not heed at all; For my heart was throbbing loud and fast, And the tears began to fall. He led me out beneath the stars, I told him it was in vain For him to vow — I had no faith To pledge with him again. His voice was sad and thrilling and deep, And my pride flew away, And left me to weep. And when he said he loved me most true, - And ever should love me, " Yes, love only you," he said, I could not help trusting Archie — Say, could you? I46 GERMAN CHARACTER. GERMAN CHARACTER. Arthur S. Hoyt. Two elements underlie all Teutonic character — the deep power of love and the grand power of will. The one is run in the intense national spirit of the race, in the sacredness of domestic ties, in the reverence for a Supreme Being. The other has been the fruitful germ of free acting and free thinking, of civil right and religious liberty, the force which, through willing hearts and plodding brains, has scaled the loftiest heights of speculation or fathomed the lowest depths of research. Have you ever read that poem of Arndt's, " What is the German's Fatherland ? " Arrogant French diplomacy little knew the storm it was gathering to burst upon its own head. It planned the disruption of a people, but inspired a song which bound it with cords the wildest martial fury could not snap. How all their later history breathes and pulsates with this unity of race. How the word " Fatherland " is twined about the very tendrils of the German heart! Why was Frederic called the " Hero of Rosbach " ? That was not a great victory. The well-regulated Prussian valor easily overcame a dunce of a general and his ill-disciplined army. It has been honored and crowned because it made a day memorable as Agincourt or Bannockburn. Hitherto Germans had fought Germans. T he defeat of one could not be called the honest pride of the other. Rosbach was the first field won from the Gallic race by a pure Teutonic army since the age of Charlemagne. It gave language to unuttered feelings, and distinctly proclaimed the reality of a German nation. The last decade has drawn the same character in a bolder hand. Six short weeks humbled the power of Austria and pointed the way to Prussian ascendency. No thrill of joy ran from the Baltic to the Alps. Stained and tattered ban- ners hung in the churches of Berlin ; but they told only the story of one blood and one language. The power of a Bis- marck had crushed forever the ambition of a Leopold ; but Germany kept an ominous silence, and only cast suspicious glances at the would-be autocrat of Europe. A handful of years and the scene has changed. A rumor floats on the heated air of a summer day that startles the THE FLIGHT FOR LIFE. 147 quiet of a sleepy hamlet, and rises above the din of the busiest mart. It is the courier of war, telling with panting breath how Paris resouncFs with the cry of " On to Berlin," and how a French army is marching for the Rhine. The sluggish German blood quickens its flow, and the national heart throbs with a stronger life. Visions of desecrated homes and polluted altars rise unbidden, and the Father- land is bulwarked by a million men. " Empire of the Air " no longer, Germany becomes the " Empire of the Land," and vows to guard forever the ancient freedom of the Rhine. THE FLIGHT FOR LIFE. William Sawyer. An Emigrant's Reminiscence. Oh, hideous leagues of straining woods, Straining back from the sea ; Oh, woods of pine, and nothing but pine, Will they never have end for me ? The ceaseless line of the red, red pine, My very brain it sears ; And the roar of trees, like surging seas, Is it ever to haunt my ears ? Let me remember it all : 'Twas late — The burning end of day — The trees were all in a golden glow, As with the flame they would burn away. The joyful news to our clearing came, Came as the sun went down ; A ship from England at anchor lay In the bay of the nearest town. In that good ship my Alice had come — Alice, my dainty queen ! Sweet Alice, my own, my own so near — There was only the woods between ! Now, three days' journey we counted that, The days and nights were three ; 14^ THE FLIGHT FOR LIFE. But for thirty days and thirty nights I had journeyed my love to see. Before an hour to the night had gone, Into the wood I went ; The pine tops yet were bright in the light, Though below it was all but spent. "The moon at ten and the dawn at four ! " For this I offered praise ; Though I knew the wood on the hither side, Knew each of its tortuous ways. The moon rose redder than any sun, Through the straight pines it rose ; But glittered on keener eyes than mine — On the eyes of deadliest foes ! To sudden peril my heart awoke — And yet it did not quail ; I had skirted Indians in their camp, And the fiends were upon my trail ! Three stealthy " Snakes " were upon my track, Supple and dusk and dread ; A thought of Alice, a prayer to God, And like wind on my course I sped. Only in flight, in weariest flight, Could I my safety find; But fast or slow, howe'er I might go, They followed me close behind. The night wore out and the moon went down, The sun rose in the sky ; But on and on came the stealthy foes, Who had made it my doom to die. With two to follow and one to sleep, They tracked me through the night ; But one could follow and two could sleep In the day's increasing light. THE FLIGHT FOR LIFE. I49 So all day under the burning sky, All night beneath the stars, And on, when the moon through ranging pines Gleamed white as through prison-bars. With some to follow and some to halt, Their course they well might keep ; But I — oh, God, for a little rest, For a moment of blessed sleep ! Lost in the heart of the hideous wood, My desperate way I kept ; For why ! They would take me if I stayed, And murder me if I slept. But brain will yield and body will drop ; And next when sunset came, I shrieked delirious at the light, For I fancied the wood on flame ! I shrieked, I reeled ; then venomous eyes And dusky shapes were there ; And I felt the touch of gleaming steel, And a hand in my twisted hair. A cry, a struggle, and down I sank ; But sank not down alone — A shot had entered the Indian's heart, And his body bore down my own ! Yet an Indian gun that shot had fired — Most timely, Heaven knows ! For I had chanced on a friendly tribe, Who were watching my stealthy foes. And they who fired had kindliest hearts : They gave me nursing care ; And when that my brain knew aught again, Lo, my Alice, my own, was there ! Dear Alice ! But, oh, the straining woods, Straining back from the sea ; The woods of pine, and nothing but pine, They have never an end for me. 150 THE BELLS. The ceaseless line of the red, red pine, My brain to madness sears ; And the roar of trees, like surging seas, Is a horror in my ears. THE BELLS. Edgar A. Poe= Hear the sledges with the bells, Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night, How they ring out their delight From the molten golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle dove, that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh! from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells, How it swells! How it dwells On the future! — how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! THE BELLS. 151 Hear the loud alarum bells, Brazen bells ! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now — now to sit, or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh! the bells! What a tale their terror tells Of despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horrid outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells, In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! Hear the tolling of the bells, Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. 152 THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH. And the people — ah! the people! They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone: They are neither man nor woman, They are neither brute nor human; They are ghouls; And their king it is who tolls And he rolls A paean from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells! And he dances and he yells; Keeping time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells, Keeping time As he knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells, To the tolling of the bells, To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH. From the " Burlington Hawkeye." On the road once more, with Lebanon fading away in the distance, the fat passenger drumming idly on the window pane, the cross passenger sound asleep, and the tall, thin passenger reading " Gen. Grant's Tour Around the World," and wondering why " Green's August Flower " should be printed above the doors of "A Buddhist Temple at Benares." To me comes the brakeman, and, seating himself on the arm of the seat, says : " I went to church yesterday." " Yes ? " I said, with that interested inflection that asks for more. " And what church did you attend ? " " Which do you guess ? " he asked. " Some union mission church," I hazarded. THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH. 153 " No," he said, " I don't like to run on these branch roads very much. I don't often go to church, and when I do I want to run on the main line, where your run is regular and you go on schedule time and don't have to wait on con- nections. I don't like to run on a branch. Good enough, but I don't like it." " Episcopal ? " I guessed. " Limited express," he said; " all palace cars and $2 extra for seat, fast time and only stop at big stations. Nice line, but too exhaustive for a brakeman. All train men in uni- form, conductor's punch and lantern silver plated, and no train boys allowed. Then the passengers are allowed to talk back at the conductor, and it makes them too free and easy. No, I couldn't stand the palace cars. Rich road, though. Don't often hear of a receiver being appointed for that line. Some mighty nice people travel on it, too." " Universalist ? " I suggested. " Broad guage," said the brakeman ; " does too much complimentary business. Everybody travels on a pass. Conductor doesn't get a fare once in fifty miles. Stops at flag stations, and won't run into anything but a union depot. No smoking car on the train. Train orders are rather vague though, and the train men don't get along well with the passengers. No, I don't go to the Universalist, but I know some good men who run on that road." "Presbyterian ?" I asked. "Narrow gauge, eh ? " said the brakeman; "pretty track, straight as a rule ; tunnel right through a mountain rather than go around it ; spirit level grade ; passengers have to show their tickets before they get on the train. Mighty strict road, but the cars are a little narrow ; have to sit one in a seat, and no room in the aisle to dance. Then there is no stop-over ticket allowed ; got to go straight through to the station you're ticketed for, or you can't get on at all. When the car is full no extra coaches ; cars built at the shop to hold just so many and nobody else allowed on. But you don't often hear of an accident on that road. It's run right up to the rules." " Maybe you joined the Free Thinkers ? " I said. "Scrub road," said the brakeman; "dirt road bed and no ballast ; no time card and no train dispatcher. All trains run wild, and every engineer makes his own time, just as he pleases. Smoke if you want to ; kind of go-as-you-please 154 THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH. road. Too many side tracks, and every switch wide open all the time, with the switchman sound asleep and the target lamp dead out. Get on as you please and get off when you want to. Don't have to show your tickets, and the con- ductor isn't expected to do anything but amuse the passen- gers. No, sir. I was offered a pass, but I don't like the line. I don't like to travel on a road that has no terminus. Do you know, sir, I asked a division superintendent where that road run to, and he said he hoped to die if he knew. I asked him if the general superintendent could tell me, and he said he didn't believe they had a general superintendent, and if they had, he didn't know anything .more about the road than the passengers. I asked him who he reported to and he said ' nobody.' I asked a conductor who he got his orders from, and he said he didn't take orders from any living man or dead ghost. And when I asked the engineer who he got his orders from, he said he'd like to see anybody give him orders ; he'd run the train to suit himself, or he'd run it into the ditch. Now you see, sir, I'm a railroad man, and I don't care to run on a road that has no time, makes no connections, runs nowhere, and has no superintendent. It may be all right, but I've railroaded too long to under- stand it." " Maybe you went to the Congregational church ? " "Popular road," said the brakeman ; " an old road, too — one of the very oldest in this country. Good road-bed and comfortable cars. Well-managed road, too ; directors don't interfere with division superintendents and train orders. Road's mighty popular, but it's pretty independent, too. Yes, didn't one of the division superintendents down East discontinue one of the oldest stations on this line two or three years ago ? But it's a mighty pleasant road to travel on. Always has such a pleasant class of passengers." " Did you try the Methodist? " "Now you're shouting ! " he said, with some enthusiasm. " Nice road, eh ? Fast time and plenty of passengers. Engines carry a power of steam, and don't you forget it ; steam-gauge shows a hundred and enough all the time. Lively road ; when the conductor shouts ' all aboard,' you can hear -him at the next station. Every train-light shines like a headlight. Stop-over checks are given on all through tickets ; passenger can drop off the train as often as he likes, do the station two or three days, and hop on the next HAMLET S SOLILOQUY ON HIS MOTHER S MARRIAGE. 155 revival train that comes thundering along. Good, whole- souled, companionable conductors ; ain't a road in the country where the passengers feel more at home. No passes ; every passenger pays full traffic rates for his ticket. Wesley anhouse air brakes on all trains, too; pretty safe road, but I didn't ride over it yesterday." " Perhaps you tried the Baptist? " I guessed once more. "Ah, ha," said the brakeman, " she's a daisy, isn't she? River road ; beautiful curves ; sweep around anything to keep close to the river, but it's all steel rail and rock ballast, single track all the way, and not a side track from the round house to the terminus. Takes a heap of water to run it through, double tanks at every station, and there isn't an engine in the shops that can pull a pound or run a mile with less than two gauges. But it runs through a lovely country ; those river roads always do ; river on one side and hills on the other, and it's a steady climb up the grade all the way till the run ends where the fountain-head of the river begins. Yes, sir ; I'll take the river road every time for a lovely trip, sure connections, and a good time, and no prairie dust blow- ing in at the windows. And yesterday, when the conductor came around for the tickets with a little basket punch, I didn't ask him to pass me, but I paid my fare like a little man — twenty-five cents for an hour's run and a little con- cert by the passengers throwed in. I tell you, pilgrim, you take the river road when you want — " But just here the long whistle from the engine announced a station, and the brakeman hurried to the door, shouting : " Zionsville ! The train makes no stops between here and Indianapolis ! " HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON HIS MOTHER'S MARRIAGE. O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew ! Or that the everlasting had not fix'd His cannon 'gainst self-slaughter ! O God ! God ! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world ! Fie on 't ! ah fie ! 'tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed ; things rank and gross in nature 156 MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. Possess it merely. That it should come to this ! But two months dead ! nay, not so much, not two : So excellent a king ; that was, to this, Hyperion to a satyr ; so loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth ! Must I remember ? Why, she would hang on him, As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on. And yet, within a month, — Let me not think on 't — Frailty, thy name is woman !- A little month ; or ere those shoes were old With which she follow'd my poor father's body, Like Niobe, all tears : — why she, even she, — O heaven ! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, Would have mourn'd longer, — married with my uncle. My father's brother' ; but no more like my father, Than I to Hercules : within a month, Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, She married. O most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets ! It is not nor it cannot come to good. MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. George P. Morris. This book is all that's left me now ! Tears will unbidden start, — With faltering lip and throbbing brow, I press it to my heart. For many generations past, Here is our family tree : My mother's hand this Bible clasped ; She, dying, gave it me. Ah ! well do I remember those Whose names these records bear, Who round the hearthstone used to close After the evening prayer, And speak of what these pages said, In tones my heart would thrill ! Though they are with the silent dead, Here are they living still I SONG OF THE SHIRT. 157 My father read this holy book To brothers, sisters, dear ; How calm was my poor mother's look, Who leaned God's word to hear. Her angel-face — I see it yet ! What thronging memories come ! Again that little group is met Within the halls of home ! Thou truest friend man ever knew, Thy constancy I've tried ; Where all were false I found thee true, My counselor and guide. The mines of earth no treasure give That could this volume buy : In teaching me the way to live, It taught me how to die. SONG OF THE SHIRT. Thomas 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 slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! " Work — work — work — Till the brain begins to swim, Work — work — work, Till the eyes are heavy and dim! 158 SONG OF THE SHIRT. 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 grisly 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. O God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap! " Work — work — work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread, — and rags, — That shattered roof — and this naked floor — A table — a broken chair — And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there! " Work — work — work! From weary chime to chime! Work — work — work, As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand. " Work — work — work! In the dull December light, CLASSICAL STUDY. 159 And work — work — work When the weather is warm and bright — While undereath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs, And twit me with the spring. " Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — With the sky above my head And the grass beneath my feet; For only one sweet hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal! "Oh! but for one short hour! A respite, however brief! No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief! A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!" With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread — Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger and dirt, And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch — Would that its tone could reach the rich! — She sung this "Song of the Shirt." CLASSICAL STUDY. Henry A. Frink. The power to think, the power to speak, and the power to lead, are essential to success in public life ; and whatever contributes to these is of utility to the public man. It is our purpose to show that such is the utility of classical study. l6o CLASSICAL STUDY. "The one condition," says Sir William Hamilton, " under which all powers are developed is exercise." When the Egyptian palm sends up its first shoot, weights are laid upon it. The stalk, thwarted in its upward growth, spreads out its stem, and increases in bulk until strong enough to resist the opposing force. Years afterward a tall, wide-spreading tree throws out its cooling branches to give rest and shade to the weary traveler, that, but for the direction thus given to its growth, would have been a branchless stalk. As it is not the nourishment of the soil that shapes, strengthens, and solidifies the slender stalk into a stately tree, neither is it information, but mental discipline, that develops force of intellect. Here classical study is useful. Is the mind slow to discriminate ? The classics give edge to its dulness. Is comparison feeble ? Where can more constant and strength- ening exercise be found than in translation ? Is memory in- clined to lag ? Ever spurred to its highest activity to meet constant demands upon its resources, it becomes the most nimble and ready of servitors. Is imagination fettered and groveling ? How elevated and refined, if not by ac- quaintance with the most brilliant imagery, radiant with beauty ? Is there no power of concentration, no method to the operation of the mind ? Bend the mental energies to the steady, systematic work of interpretation, and the ideas that are now like a whirl of sparks will become the bright, burning flame of organized thought. The study of classics trains the mind to act efficiently in the sphere of probabili- ties ; to weigh, to compare, to analyze evidence not definite and axiomatic, but variable and conditional. For over four centuries the public men of England have been remarkable for classic culture ; and has any country been gifted with more able and brilliant statesmen ? If the practical sense of Washington gained our liberties, the trained and cultured mind of Hamilton preserved them. Had not Hamilton in the Cabinet made permanent the victories of the field, history would have given Washington rank but little above Wallace, Bolivar, or Toussaint L'Ouver- ture. Do we forget that the uncultured eloquence of Otis and Patrick Henry gave the signal call to freedom ? No ; but we remember it was men of classical training, like Adams, Hancock, Jay, and Jefferson, that, through all the gathering difficulties of eight long years, thought out a way to independence. Compare the waning glory of Clay and THE DIFFICULTY OF RHYMING. l6l the enduring fame of the classic Webster. Clay by his native oratory moved men as the tempest sways the moun- tain ash. But now the "silver tongue " is hushed, and the " electric look " and " appealing gesture " speak no more ; what remains for the future to associate with his name ? " I still live," were the dying words of Webster. Words of prophecy that will gather meaning with the generations to come. Words spoken in another sense, yet expressive of the element of duration in all his life-long efforts as jurist, orator, and statesman. THE DIFFICULTY OF RHYMING. Anonymous. We parted by the gate in June, That soft and balmy month, Beneath the sweetly-beaming moon, And ( wonth — hunth — sunth — bunth — I can't find a rhyme to month). Years were to pass ere we should meet. A wide and yawning gulf Divides me from my love so sweet, While (ulf — sulf — dulf — mulf — stuck again ; I can't get any rhyme to gulf. I'm in a gulf myself). Oh, how I dreaded in my soul To part from my sweet nymph, While years should their long seasons roll Before (hymph — dymph — symph — I guess I'll have to let it go at that). Beneath my fortune's stern decree My lonely spirits sunk, For I a weary soul should be, And a (hunk — dunk — runk — sk — That will never do in the world). She buried her dear lovely face Within her azure scarf, She knew I'd take the wretchedness, As well as (parf — sarf — darf — harf-and-harf^ That wont answer either). Oh, I had loved her many years, I loved her for herself ; l62 THE DYING GLADIATOR. I loved her for her tender tears, And also for her (welf — nelf — helf — pelf — no, no ; not for her pelf). I took between my hands her head, How sweet her lips did pouch ! I kissed her lovingly and said — (Bouch — mouch — louch — ouch — not a bit of it did I say ouch ! ) I sorrowfully wrung her hand, My tears they did escape, My sorrow I could not command, And I was but a (sape — dape — fape — ape ; well, perhaps I did feel like an ape). I gave to her a fond adieu, Sweet pupil of love's school, I told her I would e'er be true, And always be a (dool — sool — mool — fool ; since I come to think of it, I was a fool, for she fell in love with another fellow before I was gone a month). THE DYING GLADIATOR. Lord Byron. The seal is set. Now welcome, thou dread power ! Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear ; Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear, That we become a part of what has been, And grow unto the spot, all-seeing, but unseen. And here the buzz of eager nations ran, In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause, As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man. And wherefore slaughtered ? wherefore, but because Such were the bloody circus' genial laws, And the imperial pleasure. Wherefore not ? What matters where we fall to fill the maws Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot ? Both are but theaters where the chief actors rot. THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 163 I see before me the gladiator lie : He leans upon his hand ; his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his drooped head sinks gradually low ; And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now The arena swims around him ; he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout"which hailed the wretch who won. He heard it, but he heeded not ; his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away : He recked not of the life he lost, nor prize ; But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday. All this rushed with his blood. Shall he expire, And unavenged ? Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire ! THE PILGRIM FATHERS. John Pierpont. The Pilgrim Fathers — where are they ? The waves that brought them o'er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray, As they break along the shore ; Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, When the Mayflower moored below, When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow. The mists, that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep, Still brood upon the tide ; And the rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, To stay its waves of pride, But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale, When the heavens looked dark, is gone ; As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, Is seen, and then withdrawn. • 164 THE HUNTER'S VISION. The Pilgrim exile — sainted name ! — The hill, whose icy brow- Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, In the morning's flame burns now. And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night On the hill-side and the sea, Still lies where he laid his houseless head ; But the Pilgrim — where is he ? The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest ; When summer 's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, Go, stand on the hill where they lie. The earliest ray of the golden day On that hallowed spot is cast ; And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, Looks kindly on that spot last. The Pilgrim spirit has not fled : It walks in noon's broad light ; And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, With the holy stars, by night. It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, And shall guard this ice-bound shore, Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more. THE HUNTER'S VISION. William Cullen Bryant. Upon a rock that, high and sheer, Rose from the mountain's breast, A weary hunter of the deer Had sat him down to rest, And bared, to the soft summer air, His hot red brow and sweaty hair. All dim in haze the mountains lay, With dimmer vales between; And rivers glimmered on their way, By forests, faintly seen; THE HUNTER'S VISION. 165 While ever rose a murmuring sound, From brooks below and bees around. He listened, till he seemed to hear A strain, so soft and low, That whether ia the mind or ear The listener scarce might know. With such a tone, so sweet and mild, The watching mother lulls her child. Thou weary huntsman, thus it said, Thou faint with toil and heat, The pleasant land of rest is spread Before thy very feet, And those whom thou wouldst gladly see Are waiting there to welcome thee. He looked, and 'twixt the earth and sky, Amid the noontide haze, A shadowy region met his eye, And grew beneath his gaze, As if the vapors of the air Had gathered into shapes so fair. Groves freshened as he looked, and flowers Showed bright on rocky bank, And fountains welled beneath the bowers, Where deer and pheasant drank. He saw the glittering streams, he heard The rustling bough and twittering bird. And friends — the dead — in boyhood dear, There lived and walked again, And there was one who many a year Within her grave had lain, A fair young girl, the hamlet's pride — His heart was breaking when she died. Bounding, as was her wont, she came Right toward his resting-place, And stretched her hand and called his name With that sweet smiling face. Forward, with fixed and eager eyes, The hunter leaned in act to rise. 166 the pilgrim's vision. Forward he leaned, and headlong down Plunged from that craggy wall, He saw the rocks, steep, stern, and brown, An instant in his fall ; A frightful instant — and no more, The dream and life at once were o'er. THE PILGRIM'S VISION. Oliver Wendell Holmes. In the hour of twilight shadows The Puritan looked out : He thought of the " bloudy Salvages" That lurked all around about, Of Wituwamet's pictured knife And Pecksuot's whooping shout ; For the baby's limbs were feeble, Though his father's arms were stout. His home was a freezing cabin Too bare for the hungry rat, Its roof was thatched with ragged grass And bald enough of that ; The hole that served for casement Was glazed with an ancient hat ; And the ice was gently thawing From the log whereon he sat. Along the dreary landscape His eyes went to and fro, The trees all clad in icicles, The streams that did not flow ; A sudden thought flashed o'er him, — A dream of long ago, — He smote his leathern jerkin And murmured " Even so ! " " Come hither, God-be-glorified. And sit upon my knee, Behold the dream unfolding, Whereof I spake to thee THE PILGRIM'S VISION. 167 By the winter's hearth in Leyden And on the stormy sea ; True is the dream's beginning, — So may its ending be ! " I saw in the naked forest Our scattered remnant cast, A screen of shivering branches Between them and the blast ; The snow was falling round them, The dying fell as fast ; I looked to see them perish, When lo, the vision passed. "Again mine eyes were opened ; The feeble had waxed strong, The babes had grown to sturdy men, The remnant was a throng ; By shadowed lake and winding stream And all the shores along, The howling demons quaked to hear The Christian's godly song. " They slept, — the village fathers, — By river, lake, and shore, When far adown the steep of Time The vision rose once more ; I saw along the winter snow A spectral column pour, And high above their broken ranks A tattered flag they bore. " Their leader rode before them, Of bearing calm and high, The light of heaven's own kindling Throned in his awful eye ; These were a Nation's champions Her dread appeal to try ; God for the right ! I faltered, And lo, the train passed by. " Once more ; — the strife is ended, The solemn issue tried, 168 the pilgrim's vision. The Lord of Hosts, his mighty arm Has helped our Israel's side ; Gray stone and grassy hillock Tell where our martyrs died, But peaceful smiles the harvest, And stainless flows the tide. "A crash, — as when some swollen cloud Cracks o'er the tangled trees ! With side to side, and spar to spar, Whose smoking decks are these ? I know Saint George's blood-red cross, Thou Mistress of the Seas, — But what is she, whose streaming bars Roll out before the breeze ? "Ah, well her iron ribs are knit, Whose thunders strive to quell The bellowing throats, the blazing lips, That pealed the Armada's knell ! The mist was cleared, — a wreath of stars Rose o'er the crimsoned swell, And, wavering from its haughty peak, The cross of England fell! " O trembling Faith ! though dark the morn, A heavenly torch is thine ; While feebler races melt away, And paler orbs decline, Still shall the fiery pillar's ray Along thy pathway shine, To light the chosen tribe that sought This Western Palestine ! " I see the living tide roll on ; It crowns with flaming towers The icy capes of Labrador, The Spaniard's 'land of flowers'! It streams beyond the splintered ridge That parts the Northern showers ; From eastern rock to sunset wave The Continent is ours I " BOOKS. 169 He ceased, — the grim old Puritan, — Then softly bent to cheer The Pilgrim-child, whose wasting face Was meekly turned to hear ; And drew his toil-worn sleeve across, To brush the manly tear From cheeks that never changed in woe, And never blanched in fear. The weary pilgrim slumbers, His resting-place unknown ; His hands were crossed, his lids were closed, The dust was o'er him strown ; The drifting soil, the moldering leaf, Along the sod were blown ; His mound has melted into earth, His memory lives alone. So let it live unfading, The memory of the dead, Long as the pale anemone Springs where their tears were shed, Or, raining in the summer's wind In flakes of burning red, The wild rose sprinkles with its leaves The turf where once they bled ! Yea, when the frowning bulwarks That guard this holy strand Have sunk beneath the trampling surge In beds of sparkling sand, While in the waste of ocean One hoary rock shall stand, Be this its latest legend, — Here was the pilgrim's land ! BOOKS. E. P. Whipple. There was to be a stern death-grapple between the heavy arm and the ethereal thought ; between that which was and that which ought to be ; for there was a great spirit abroad, which dungeons could not confine nor oceans check. It 170 THE AMERICAN FLAG. was a spirit whose path lay through the great region of ideas ; whose dominion was over the mind. From the hour of the invention of printing, books, and not kings, were to rule the world. Weapons forged in the mind, keen-edged, and brighter than a sunbeam, were to supplant the sword and battle-ax. Books ! light-houses built on the sea of time ! Books ! by whose sorcery the whole pageantry of the world's history moves in solemn procession before our eyes. From their pages great souls look down in all their grandeur, undimmed by the faults and follies of earthly existence, consecrated by time. In that world "no divinity hedges a king"; no accident of rank ennobles a dunce or shields a knave. Reason is con- fined within none of the limits which trammel it in life. There, things are called by their right names. Our lips give not the lie to our hearts. We bend the knee only to the great and good ; we despise only the despicable ; honor only the honorable. In the world of books we can select companions from among the most richly gifted of the sons of God. When everything else fails ; when the world of forms and shows appears a two-edged lie, which seems but is not ; when all our earth-clinging hopes melt into nothingness, we are still not without friends. In their immortal countenances we see no change. They dignify low fortune and humble life with their kingly presence, and people solitude with shapes more glorious than ever glistened in court or palace. Well might Milton exclaim in that impassioned speech for the "Liberty of Unlicensed Printing": "Who kills a man kills a reasoning creature — God's image ; but who destroys a good book kills reason itself." Many a man lives a bur- den upon the earth ; but a good book is the precious life- blood of a master spirit embalmed and treasured up on pur- pose for a life beyond life. THE AMERICAN FLAG. Joseph Rodman Drake. When Freedom, from her mountain height Unfurl'd her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there ! THE AMERICAN FLAG. 171 She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure celestial white With streakings of the morning light. Then, from his mansion in the sun, She call'd her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land ! Majestic monarch of the cloud ! Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, — Child of the Sun ! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle-stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory ! Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high ! When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on, Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet, Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn, And as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, And gory sabers rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall shrink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 172 oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud? When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. Flag of the free heart's hope and home, By angel hands to valor given, Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet, Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us. OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? Anonymous. Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift, fleeting meteor, a fast flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, Man passes from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willows shall fade, Be scattered around and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and the high, Shall moider to dust and together shall lie. The infant a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant's affection who proved; The husband that mother and infant who blessed, Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure — her triumphs are by; And the memory of those who loved her and praised, Are alike from the minds of the living erased. OH ! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? 173 The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne; The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn; The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave. The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap; The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep; The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread. The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed That withers away to let others succeed; So the multitude comes, even those we behold, To repeat every tale that has often been told. For we are the same our fathers have been; We see the same sights our fathers have seen — We drink the same stream and view the same sun, And run the same course our fathers have run. The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink, To the life we are clinging they also would cling; But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing. They loved, but the story we cannot unfold; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come; They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. They died, aye! they died: and we things that are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, Who make in their dwelling a transient abode, Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road. Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, We mingle together in sunshine and rain; And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge, Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 174 THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath; From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud — Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. Victor Hugo. It had rained all night. Water lay here and there in the hollows of the plain, as in basins. At some points the wheels sank to the axles. The horses' girths dripped with liquid mud. The affair opened late. The plan of the battle which had been conceived was indeed admirable. Ney drew his sword, placed himself at the head, and the immense squad- rons began to move. Then was seen a fearful sight. Noth- ing like it had been seen since the taking of the grand redoubt at La Moscana, by the heavy cavalry. Murat was not there; but Ney was there. It seemed as if this mass had become a monster, and had but a single mind. Each squadron undulated and swelled like the ring of a polyp. They could be seen through the thick smoke as it was broken here and there. It was one pell-mell of casques, cries, sa- bers ; a furious bounding of horses among the cannon; a terrible, disciplined tumult. Something like this vision ap- peared in the old Orphic Epics which tell' of" certain antique hippanthropes, those Titans, with human faces and chests like horses, whose gallop scaled Olympus, horrible, invul- nerable, sublime — at once gods and beasts. All at once, at the left of the English, and on the French right, the head of the column of' cuirassiers reared with frightful clamor, and there appeared three thousand faces with gray mustaches, crying/' Vive V Empereur!" Unman- ageable, full of fury, and bent on extermination of the squares and cannon, the cuirassiers saw between them and the Eng- lish, a ditch — a grave ! It was the sunken road of Ohain. It was a frightful moment. There' was a ravine, unlooked for, yawning at the very feet of the horses, two fathoms deep between its double slope. The second rank pushed in the first. The horses reared; threw themselves over; fell upon their backs; struggled with their feet in the air, piling up and overturning their riders. Without power to retreat, the whole column was nothing but a projectile. The force TO THE FUTURE. 175 acquired to crush the English crushed the French. The inexorable ravine could not yield until it was filled with riders and horses rolled in together, grinding one another, making common flesh in this dreadful gulf; and when this grave was full of living men, the rest marched over and passed on. Was it possible that Napoleon should win the battle of Waterloo? We answer, No! Why? Because of Welling- ton? Because of Bliicher? No. Because of God! For Bonaparte to conquer at Waterloo was not in the law of the nineteenth century. It was time that this vast man should fall. He had been impeached before the Infinite! He had vexed God! Waterloo was not a battle. It was the change of front of the Universe. TO THE FUTURE. James Russell Lowell. O, Land of Promise! from what Pisgah's height Can I behold thy stretch of peaceful bowers? Thy golden harvests flowing out of sight, Thy nestled homes and sun-illumined towers? Gazing upon the sunset's high-heaped gold, Its crags of opal and of crysolite, Its deeps on deeps of glory that unfold Still brightening abysses, And blazing precipices, Whence but a scanty leap it seems to heaven, Sometimes a glimpse is given, Of thy more gorgeous realm, thy more unstinted blisses. O, Land of Quiet! to thy shore the surf Of the perturbed Present rolls and sleeps; Our storms breathe soft as June upon thy turf And lure out blossoms; to thy bosom leaps, As to a mother's, the o'er wearied heart, Hearing far off and dim the toiling mart, The hurrying feet, the curses without number, And, circled with the glow Elysian, Of thine exulting vision, Out of its very cares wooes charms for peace and slumber. 176 TO THE FUTURE. To thee the Earth lifts up her fettered hands And cries for vengeance; with a pitying smile Thou blessest her, and she forgets her bands, And her old woe-worn face a little while Grows young and noble; unto thee the Oppressor Looks, and is dumb with awe; The eternal law Which makes the crime its own blindfold redresser, Shadows his heart with perilous foreboding, And he can see the grim-eyed Doom From out the trembling gloom Its silent-footed steeds toward his palace goading. What promises hast thou for Poet's eyes, Aweary of the turmoil and the wrong! To all their hopes what over-joyed replies! What undreamed ecstasies for blissful song! Thy happy plains no war-trump's brawling clangor Disturbs, and fools the poor to hate the poor; The humble glares not on the high with anger; Love leaves no grudge at less, no greed for more; In vain strives Self the godlike sense to smother; From the soul's deeps It throbs and leaps; The noble 'neath foul rags beholds his long-lost brother. To thee the Martyr looketh, and his fires Unlock their fangs and leave his spirit free; To thee the Poet 'mid his toil aspires, And grief and hunger climb about his knee Welcome as children; thou upholdest The lone Inventor by his demon haunted; The Prophet cries to thee when hearts are coldest And, gazing o'er the midnight's bleak abyss, Sees the drowsed soul awaken at thy kiss, And stretch its happy arms and leap up disenchanted. Thou bringest vengeance, but so loving kindly The guilty thinks it pity; taught by thee Fierce tyrants drop the scourges wherewith blindly Their own souls they were scarring; conquerors see With horror in their hands the accursed spear That tore the meek One's side on Calvary; THE MODERN BELLE. 1 77 And from their trophies shrink with ghastly fear; Thou, too, art the Forgiver, The beauty of man's soul to man revealing; The arrows from thy quiver Pierce error's guilty heart, but only pierce for healing. O, whither, whither, glory-winged dreams, From out Life's sweat and turmoil would ye bear me ? Shut, gates of Fancy, on your golden gleams, This agony of hopeless contrast spare me! Fade, cheating glow, and leave me to my night! He is a coward who would borrow A charm against the present sorrow From the vague Future's promise of delight: As life's alarums nearer roll, The ancestral buckler calls, Self-clanging, from the walls In the high temple of the soul; Where are most sorrows, there the poet's sphere is, To feed the soul with patience, To heal its desolations With words of unshorn truth, with love that never wearies.. THE MODERN BELLE. Stark. She sits in a fashionable parlor And rocks in her easy chair; She is clad in silks and satins, And jewels are in her hair; She winks and giggles and simpers, And simpers and giggles and winks, And though she talks but little, 'Tis a good deal more than she thinks. She lies abed in the morning Till nearly the hour of noon, Then comes down snapping and snarling Because she was called so soon; Her hair is still in papers, Her cheeks still fresh with paint — Remains of her last night's blushes Before she intended to faint. 178 HENRY THE FOURTH'S SOLILOQUY ON SLEEP. She dotes upon men unshaven, And men with "flowing hair"; She's eloquent over mustaches, They give such a foreign air. She talks of Italian music, And falls in love with the moon; And if a mouse were to meet her She would sink away in a swoon. Her feet are so very little, Her hands are so very white, Her jewels so very heavy, And her head so very light; Her color is made of cosmetics (Though this she will never own), Her body is made mostly of cotton, Her heart is made wholly of stone. She falls in love with a fellow Who swells with a foreign air; He marries her for her money, She marries him for his hair! One of the very best matches — Both are well mated in life — She's got a fool for a husband, He's got a fool for a wife. HENRY THE FOURTH'S SOLILOQUY ON SLEEP. Shakespeare. How many thousand of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lulled with sounds of sweetest melody? O! thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile, ON PROCRASTINATION. I 79 In loathsome beds ; and leav'st the kingly couch, A watch-case, or a common 'larum bell? Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge, And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deafening clamors in the slippery clouds, That with the hurly, death itself awakes? Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude; And, in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king? Then, happy low-lie-down! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. ON PROCRASTINATION. Young. Be wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer; Next day the fatal precedent will plead; Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life. Procrastination is the thief of time; Year after year it steals, till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene. Of man's miraculous mistakes this bears The palm, "That all men are about to live," For ever on the brink of being born. All pay themselves the compliment to think They one day shall not drivel; and their pride On this reversion takes up ready praise: At least their own; their future selves applaud: How excellent that life they ne'er will lead! Time lodged in their own hands is Folly's vails; That lodged in Fate's to wisdom they consign; The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone^ 'Tisnotin folly not to scorn a fool, And scarce in human wisdom to do more. All promise is poor dilatory man, l8o CATO'S SOLILOQUY. And that through every stage. When young, indeed, In full content we sometimes nobly rest, Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish, As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. At thirty man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; At fifty chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; In all the magnanimity of thought Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the same. And why ? Because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal but themselves; Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread; But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close; where passed the shaft no trace is found, As from the wing no scar the sky retains, The parted wave no furrow from the keel, So dies in human hearts the thought of death. Even with the tender tears which nature sheds O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. CATO'S SOLILOQUY. Joseph Addison. It must be so — Plato, thou reasonest well! Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into naught ? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis Heaven itself, that points out a hereafter, And intimates eternity to man. Eternity! — thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass! The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us, — And that there is, all Nature cries aloud NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. I Through all her works, — He must delight in virtue; And that which He delights in must be happy. But when? or where? This world was made for Caesar. I'm weary of conjectures, — this must end them. [Laying his hand on his sword. Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life, My bane and antidote, are both before me. This in a moment brings me to my end; But this informs me I shall never die. The soul, secure in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years; But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amid the war of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. John Pierpont. O, no, no — let me lie Not on a field of battle, when I die! Let not the iron tread Of the mad war-horse crush my helmed head: Nor let the reeking knife, That I have drawn against a brother's life, Be in my hand, when Death Thunders along, and tramples me beneath His heavy squadron's heels, Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels. From such a dying bed, Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red, And the bald Eagle brings The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings, To sparkle in my sight, O, never let my spirit take her flight! I know that beauty's eye Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly, And brazen helmets dance, And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance: 182 NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. I know that bards have sung And people shouted till the welkin rung, In honor of the brave Who on the battle-field have found a grave; I know that o'er their bones Have grateful hands piled monumental stones. Such honors grace the bed, I know, whereon the warrior lays his head, And hears, as life ebbs out, The conquered flying, and the conqueror's shout But, as his eyes grow dim, What is a column or a mound to him? What to the parting soul, The mellow note of bugles? What the roll Of drums? No! let me die Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly. And, in my dying hour, When riches, fame, and honor have no power To bear the spirit up, Or from my lips to turn aside the cup That all must drink at last, O, let me draw refreshment from the past! Then let my soul run back, With peace and joy, along my earthly track, And see that all the seeds That I have scattered there, in virtuous deeds, Have sprung up and have given Already fruits of which to taste is Heaven! And, though no grassy mound Or granite pile say 'tis heroic ground Where my remains repose, Still will I hope — vain hope, perhaps! — that those Whom I have striven to bless, The wanderer reclaimed, the fatherless, May stand around my grave With the poor prisoner, and the poorer slave, And breathe a humble prayer, That they may die like him whose bones are moldering there. THE AIM OF DON QUIXOTE. 183 THE AIM OF DON QUIXOTE. George Ticknor. At the very beginning of his great work, Cervantes an- nounces it to be his sole purpose to break down the vogue and authority of books of chivalry, and at the end of the whole, he declares anew, in his own person, that " he had no other desire than to render abhorred of men the false and absurd stories contained in books of chivalry;" ex- ulting in his success, as an achievement of no small mo- ment. And such, in fact, it was; for we have abundant proof that the fanaticism for these romances was so great in Spain, during the sixteenth century, as to have become matter of alarm to the more judicious. To destroy a passion that had struck its roots so deeply in the character of all classes of men, to break up the only reading which, at that time, could be considered widely popular and fashionable, was certainly a bold undertaking, and one that marks anything rather than a scornful or broken spirit, or a want of faith in what is most to be valued in our common nature. The great wonder is, that Cervantes suc- ceeded. But that he did, there is no question. No book of chivalry was written after the appearance of Don Quixote in 1605; and from that date, even those already enjoying the greatest favor ceased, with one or two unimportant excep- tions, to be reprinted: so that, from that time to the present, they have been constantly disappearing, until they are now among the rarest of literary curiosities. The general plan Cervantes adopted to accomplish this object, without, perhaps, foreseeing its whole course, and still less all its results, was simple as well as original. In 1605, he published the first part of Don Quixote, in which a country gentleman of La Mancha — full of genuine Castil- ian honor and enthusiasm, gentle and dignified in his char- acter, trusted by his friends, and loved by his dependents — is represented as so completely crazed by long reading the most famous books of chivalry, that he believes them to be true, and feels himself called on to become the impossible knight-errant they describe, — nay, actually goes forth into the world to defend the oppressed and avenge the injured, like the heroes of his romances. To complete his chivalrous equipment, — which he had 184 THE AIM OF DON QUIXOTE. begun by fitting up for himself a suit of armor strange to his century, — he took an esquire out of his neighborhood; a middle-aged peasant, ignorant and credulous to excess, but of great good nature; a glutton and a liar; selfish and gross, yet attached to his master; shrewd enough occasionally to see the folly of their position, but always amusing, and some- times mischievous in his interpretations of it. These two sally forth from their native village, in search of adventures of which the excited imagination of the knight, turning windmills into giants, solitary inns into castles, and galley-slaves into oppressed gentlemen, finds abundance wherever he goes; while the esquire translates them all into the plain prose of truth with an admirable simplicity, quite unconscious of its own humor, and rendered the more strik- ing by its contrast with the lofty and courteous dignity and magnificent illusions of the superior personage. There could, of course, be but one consistent termination of ad- ventures like these. The knight and his esquire suffer a series of ridiculous discomfitures, and are, at last, brought home, like madmen, to their native village, where Cervantes leaves them with an intimation that the story of their adven- tures is by no means ended. The latter half of Don Quixote is a contradiction of the proverb Cervantes cites in it — that second parts- were never yet good for much. It is, in fact, better than the first. But, throughout both parts, Cervantes shows the impulses and instincts of an original power with most distinctness in his development of the characters of Don Quixote and Sancho; characters in whose contrast and opposition is hidden the full spirit of his peculiar humor, and no small part of what is most characteristic of the entire fiction. They are his prominent personages. His delights, therefore, to have them as much as possible in the front of his scene. The knight becomes gradually a detached, separate, and wholly independent personage into whom is infused so much of a generous and elevated nature, such gentleness and deli- cacy, such a pure sense of honor, and such a warm love for whatever is noble and good, that we feel almost the same attachment to him that the barber and the curate did, and are almost as ready as his family was, to mourn over his death. The case of Sancho is, again, very similar, and, perhaps, in some respects stronger. At first, he is introduced as the opposite of Don Quixote, and used merely to bring out his THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. 185 master's peculiarities in a more striking relief. It is not until we have gone through nearly half of the first part that he utters one of those proverbs which form afterward the staple of his conversation and humor; and it is not until the opening of the second part, and, indeed, not till he comes forth in all his mingled shrewdness and credulity, as governor of Barataria, that his character is quite developed and completed to the full measure of its grotesque, yet con- gruous proportions. But, if we would do Cervantes the justice that would have been dearest to his own spirit, and even if we would our- selves fully comprehend and enjoy the whole of his Don Quixote, we should, as we read it, bear in mind that this delightful romance was not the result of a youthful exuber- ance of feeling, and a happy external condition, nor com- posed in his best years, when the spirits of its author were light and his hopes high: but that, with all its unquenchable and irresistible humor, with its bright views of the world, and its cheerful trust in goodness and virtue, it was written in his old age, at the conclusion of a life nearly every step of which had been marked with disappointed expectations, disheartening struggles, and sore calamities; that he began it in a prison, and that it was finished when he felt the hand of death pressing heavy and cold upon his heart. If this be remembered as we read, we may feel, as we ought to feel, what admiration and reverence are due, not only to the living power of Don Quixote, but to the character and genius of Cervantes; if it be forgotten or underrated, we shall fail in regard to both. THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.* Thomas Moore. " They made her a grave, too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true; And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, * They tell of a young man who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterward heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses. — Anon. l86 THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. Where, all night long, by a fire fly lamp, She paddles her white canoe! "And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, And her paddle I soon shall hear; Long and loving our life shall be, And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, When the footstep of death is near! " Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds — His path was rugged and sore, Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds, And man never trod before! And, when on the earth he sunk to sleep, If slumber his eyelids knew, He lay where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear, and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew! And near him the she wolf stirred the brake, And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, " Oh, when shall I see the dusky lake,* And the white canoe of my dear?" He saw the lake, and a meteor bright Quick over its surface played — "Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light," And the dim shore echoed, for many a night, The name of the death-cold maid! Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark, Which carried him off from shore; Far, far he followed the meteor spark, The wind was high and the clouds were dark, And the boat returned no more. * The Dismal Swamp is an immense marshy tract of land, commencing near Norfolk, Virginia, and extending far into North Carolina: being about thirty miles in length and ten in width. In the midst of the Swamp is the lake here referred to — Lake Drummond — fifteen miles in circumference. DANTE AND MILTON CAMPARED. 187 Bat oft from the Indian hunter's camp, This lover and maid so true Are seen, at the hour of midnight damp, To cross the lake by a fl re-fly lamp, And paddle their white canoe! DANTE AND MILTON COMPARED. Lord Macaulay. The character of Milton was peculiarly distinguished by loftiness of thought; that of Dante by intensity of feeling. In every line of the Divine Comedy, we discern the asperity which is produced by pride struggling with misery. There is, perhaps, no work in the world so deeply and uniformly sorrowful. .The melancholy of Dante was no fantastic caprice. It was not, as far as at this distance of time can be judged, the effect of external circumstances. It was from within. Neither love nor glory, neither the conflicts of the earth nor the hope of Heaven, could dispel it. It twined every con- solation and every pleasure into its own nature. It resem- bled that noxious Sardinian soil of which the intense bitter- ness is said to have been percetpible even in its honey. His mind was, in the noble language of the Hebrew poet, " a land of darkness, as darkness itself, and where the light was as darkness! " The gloom of his character discolors all the passions of men and all the face of nature, and tinges with its own livid hue the flowers of Paradise and the glories of the Eter- nal Throne. All the portraits of him are singularly charac- teristic. No person can look on the features, noble even to ruggedness, the dark furrows of the cheek, the haggard and woeful stare of the eye, the sullen and contemptuous curve of the lip, and doubt that they belonged to a man too proud and too sensitive to be happy. Milton was, like Dante, a statesman and a lover; and, like Dante, he had been unfortunate in ambition and in love. He had survived his health and his sight, the comforts of his home and the prosperity of his party. Of the great men by whom he had been distinguished on his entrance into life, some had been taken away from the evil to come; some had carried into foreign climates their unconquerable hatred of 155 THE AFRICAN CHIEF. oppression ; some were pining in dungeons; and some had poured forth their blood on scaffolds. That hateful proscription — facetiously termed the act of indemnity and oblivion — had set a mark on the poor, blind, deserted poet, and held him up by name to the hatred of a profligate court and an inconstant people. Venal and licen- tious scribblers, with just sufficient talent to clothe the thoughts of a pander in the style of a bellman, were now the favorite writers of the sovereign and the public. It was a loathsome herd — which could be compared to nothing, so fitly, as to the rabble of Comus — grotesque mon- sters, half bestial, half human — dropping with wine, bloated with gluttony, and reeling in obscene dances. Amidst these his Muse was placed, like the chaste lady of the Masque, lofty, spotless, and serene — to be chatted at, and pointed at, and grinned at, by the whole tribe of satyrs and goblins. If ever despondency could be excused in any man, it might have been excused in Milton. But the strength of his mind overcame every calamity. Neither blindness, nor gout, nor penury, nor age, nor domestic afflictions, nor political disappointments, nor abuse, nor proscription, nor neglect, had power to disturb his sedate and majestic pa- tience. His spirits do not seem to have been high, but they were singularly equable. His temper was serious, perhaps stern; but it was a temper which no sufferings could render sullen or fretful. Such as it was, when on the eve of great events he re- turned from his travels, in the prime of health and manly beauty, loaded with literary distinctions and glowing with patriotic hopes, such it continued to be — when, after having experienced every calamity which is incident to our nature, old, poor, sightless, and disgraced, he retired to his hovel to die! THE AFRICAN CHIEF. William Cullen Bryant. Chained in the market-place he stood, A man of giant frame, Amid the gathering multitude That shrunk to hear his name — All stern of look and strong of limb, His dark eye on the ground; — THE AFRICAN CHIEF. 189 And silently they gazed on him, As on a lion bound. Vainly, but well, that chief had fought, He was a captive now, Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, Was written on his brow. The scars his dark broad bosom wore Showed warrior true and brave; A prince among his tribe before, He could not be a slave. Then to his conqueror he spake — " My brother is a king; Undo this necklace from my neck, And take this bracelet ring, And send me where my brother reigns, And I will fill thy hands With store of ivory from the plains, And gold-dust from the sands." " Not for thy ivory nor thy gold Will I unbind thy chain; That bloody hand shall never hold The battle-spear again. A price thy nation never gave, Shall yet be paid for thee; For thou sha'lt be the Christian's slave, Inlands beyond the sea." Then wept the warrior chief, and bade To shred his locks away; And, one by one, each heavy braid Before the victor lay. Thick were the platted locks, and long, And deftly hidden there Shone many a wedge of gold among The dark and crisped hair. " Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold Long kept for sorest need; Take it — thou askest sums untold, And say that I am freed. I90 ALPINE SCENERY. Take it — my wife, the long, long day Weeps by the cocoa-tree, And my young children leave their play, And ask in vain for me." "I take thy gold — but I have made Thy fetters fast and strong, And ween that by the cocoa shade Thy wife will wait thee long." Strong was the agony that shook The captive's frame to hear, And the proud meaning of his look Was changed to mortal fear. His heart was broken — crazed his brain: At once his eye grew wild; He struggled fiercely with his chain, Whispered, and wept, and smiled; Yet wore not long those fatal bands, And once, at shut of day, They drew him forth upon the sands, The foul hyena's prey. ALPINE SCENERY. Lord Byron. Above me are the Alps — most glorious Alps — The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, And throned Eternity in icy halls Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow! All that expands the spirit, yet appalls, Gather around these summits as to show How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below. Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, — The mirror, where the stars and mountains view The stillness of their aspect in each trace Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue. There is too much of man here, to look through, ALPINE SCENERY. 19I With a fit mind, the might which I behold; But soon in me shall loneliness renew Thoughts hid, but not less cherished than of old, Ere mingling with the herd that penned me in their fold. Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake With the wide world I've dwelt in is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction ; once I loved Torn ocean's roar ; but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. It is the hush of night; and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Save darkened Jura, whose capped heights appear Precipitously steep; and drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more. He is an evening reveler, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill; At intervals, some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still. There seems a floating whisper on the hill; — But that is fancy; for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love distill, Weeping themselves away till they infuse Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven, If, in your bright leaves, we would read the fate Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great, Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you; for ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. 192 ALPINE SCENERY. All heaven and earth are still, — though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: — All heaven and earth are still! From the high host Of stars to the lulled lake, and mountain coast, All is concentered in a life intense, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, But hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and Defense. The sky is changed! and such a change! O Night, And Storm, and Darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder! — not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue; And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! And this is in the night. — Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — A portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, — a phosphoric sea — And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 'tis black — and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye, With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful: — the far roll Of your departing voices is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest, But where, of ye, O tempests! is the goal? Are ye like those within the human breast? Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest? The morn is up again, the dewy morn, With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, And living as if earth contained no tomb, — BLENNERHASSETT. I93 And glowing into day: we may resume The march of our existence; and thus I, Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room And food for meditation, nor pass by Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly. BLENNERHASSETT. William Wirt. Who is Blennerhassett? A native of Ireland, a man of letters, who fled from the storms of his own country to find quiet in ours. Possessing himself of a beautiful island in the Ohio, he rears upon it a palace, and decorates it with every romantic embellishment of fancy. A shrubbery, that Shen- stone might have envied, blooms around him; music, which might have charmed Calypso and her nymphs, is his; an extensive library spreads its treasures before him; a philo- sophical apparatus offers to him all the secrets and mys- teries of nature; peace, tranquillity, and innocence, shed their mingled delights around him ; and to crown the enchantment of the scene, a wife, who is said to be lovely even beyond her sex, and graced with every accomplishment that can render it irresistible, had blessed him with her love, and made him the father of her children. The evidence would convince you, sir, that this is only a faint picture of the real life. In the midst of all this peace, this innocence, and this tranquillity, this feast of the mind, this pure banquet of the heart — the destroyer comes ; he comes to turn this paradise into a hell. A stranger presents himself. It is Aaron Burr! Introduced to their civilities by the high rank which he had lately held in his country, he soon finds his way to their hearts by the dignity and elegance of his demeanor, the light and beauty of his con- versation, and the seductive and fascinating power of his address. The conquest was not a difficult one. Innocence is ever simple and credulous; conscious of no designs of itself, it suspects none in others; it wears no guards before its breast; every door, and portal, and avenue of the heart is thrown open, and all who choose it, enter. Such was the state of Eden, when the serpent entered its bowers. The prisoner in a more engaging form, winding himself into the open and unpracticed heart of the unfortunate Blenner- 194 SERENADE. hassett, found but little difficulty in changing the native character of that heart, and the objects of its affection. By degrees he infuses into it the poison of his own ambition; he breathes into it the fire of his own courage; a daring and desperate thirst for glory; an ardor panting for all the storms, and bustle, and hurricane of life. In a short time the whole man is changed, and every object of his former delight relinquished. Greater objects have taken possession of his soul; his imagination has been dazzled by visions of diadems, and stars, and garters, and titles of nobility ; he has been taught to burn with restless emulation at the names of Cromwell, Caesar, and Bonaparte. His enchanted island is destined soon to relapse into a desert; and in a few months we find the tender and beau- tiful partner of his bosom, whom he lateely "permitted not the winds of summer to visit too roughly, — " we find her shivering, at midnight, on the winter banks of the Ohio, and mingling her tears with the torrents that froze as they. fell. Yet this unfortunate man, thus deluded from his interest and his happiness; thus seduced from the paths of inno- cence and peace; thus confounded in the toils which were de- liberately spread for him, and overwhelmed by the mastering spirit and genius of another; — this man, thus ruined and undone, and made to play a subordinate part in this grand drama of guilt and treason, this man is to be called the prin- cipal offender; while he, by whom he was thus plunged and steeped in misery, is comparatively innocent — a mere acces- sory. Sir, neither the human heart, nor the human under- standing, will bear a perversion so monstrous and absurd; so shocking to the soul; so revolting to reason. SERENADE. James Gates Percival. Softly the moonlight Is shed on the lake, Cool is the summer nighty- Wake! O, awake! Faintly the curfew Is heard from afar, List ye! O, list To the lively guitar. SERENADE. 1 95 Trees cast a mellow shade Over the vale, Sweetly the serenade Breathes in the gale, Softly and tenderly Over the lake, Gayly and cheerily, — Wake! O, awake ! See the light pinnace Draws nigh to the shore, Swiftly it glides, At the heave of the oar, Cheerily plays On its buoyant car, Nearer and nearer, The lively guitar. Now the wind rises And ruffles the pine, Ripples foam-crested Like diamonds shine, They flash where the waters The white pebbles lave, In the wake of the moon, As it crosses the wave. Bounding from billow To billow, the boat, Like a wild swan, is seen On the waters to float; And the light dripping oars Bear it smoothly along, In time to the air Of the gondolier's song. And high on the stern Stands the young and the brave, As love-led he crosses The star-spangled wave, And blends with the murmur Of water and grove The tones of the night, That are sacred to love. 196 NIGHTFALL. His gold-hilted sword At his bright belt is hung, His mantle of silk On his shoulder is flung, And high waves the feather, That dances and plays On his cap where the buckle And rosary blaze. The maid from her lattice Looks down on the lake, To see the foam sparkle, The bright billow break, And to hear in his boat, Where he shines like a star, Her lover so tenderly Touch his guitar. She opens her lattice And sits in the glow Of the moonlight and starlight, A statue of snow; And she sings in a voice That is broken with sighs, And she darts on her lover The light of her eyes. The moonlight is hid In a vapor of snow; Her voice and his rebec Alternately flow ; Re-echoed they swell From the rock on the hill; They sing their farewell, And the music is still. NIGHTFALL. W. W. Ellsworth. Alone I stand; On either hand In gathering gloom stretch sea and land; NIGHTFALL. I97 Beneath my feet, With ceaseless beat, The waters murmur low and sweet. Slow falls the night: The tender light Of stars grows brighter and more bright, The lingering ray Of dying day Sinks deeper down and fades away. Now fast, now slow, The south winds blow, And softly whisper, breathing low; With gentle grace They kiss my face, Or fold me in their cool embrace. Where one pale star, O'er waters far, Droops down to touch the harbor bar, A faint light gleams, A light that seems To grow and grow till nature teems With mellow haze; And to my gaze Comes proudly rising, with its rays No longer dim, The moon; its rim In splendor gilds the billowy brim. I watch it gain The heavenly plain; Behind it trails a starry train — While low and sweet The wavelets beat Their murmuring music at my feet. Fair night of June! Your silver moon Gleams pale and still. The tender tune, Faint-floating, plays, In moonlit lays, A melody of other days. I98 THE BOY. j 'Tis sacred ground; A peace profound Comes o'er my soul. I hear no sound, Save at my feet The ceaseless beat Of waters murmuring low and sweet. THE BOY. Nathaniel P. Willis. There's something in a noble boy, A brave, free-hearted, careless one, With his uncheck'd, unbidden joy, His dread of books and love of fun, And in his clear and ready smile, Unshaded by a thought of guile, And unrepress'd by sadness, — Which brings me to my childhood back, As if I trod its very track, And felt its very gladness. And yet, it is not in his play, When every trace of thought is lost, And not when you would call him gay, That his bright presence thrills me most: His shout may ring upon the hill, His voice be echo'd in the hall, His merry laugh like music trill, And I in sadness hear it all, — For, like the wrinkles on my brow, I scarcely notice such things now, — But when, amid the earnest game, He stops, as if he music heard, And, heedless of his shouted name As of the carol of a bird, Stands gazing on the empty air, As if some dream were passing there;— 'Tis then that on his face I look — His beautiful but thoughtful face — And, like a long-forgotten book, Its sweet familiar meanings trace, — A REVERIE. 199 Remembering a thousand things Which passed me on those golden wings, Which time has fetter'd now; Things that come o'er me with a thrill, And left me silent, sad, and still, And threw upon my brow A holier and a gentler cast, That was too innocent to last. 'Tis strange how thoughts upon a child Will, like a presence, sometimes press, And when his pulse is beating wild, And life itself is in excess — When foot and hand, and ear and eye, Are all with ardor straining high — How in his heart will spring A feeling whose mysterious thrall Is stronger, sweeter far than all! And on its silent wing, How, with the clouds, he'll float away, As wandering and as lost as they! A REVERIE. James Russell Lowell. In the twilight deep and silent Comes thy spirit unto mine, When the moonlight and the starlight Over cliff and woodland shine, And the quiver of the river Seems a thrill of joy benign. Then I rise and wander slowly To the headland by the sea, When the evening star throbs setting Through the cloudy cedar tree, And from under, mellow thunder Of the surf comes fitfully. Then within my soul I feel thee Like a gleam of other years, 200 A REVERIE. Visions of my childhood murmur Their old madness in my ears, Till the pleasance of thy presence Cools my heart with blissful tears. All the wondrous dreams of boyhood — All youth's fiery thirst of praise — All the surer hopes of manhood Blossoming in sadder days — Joys that bound me, griefs that crowned me With a better wreath than bays — All the longings after freedom — The vague love of human kind, Wandering far and near at random Like a winged seed in the wind — The dim yearnings and fierce burnings Of an undirected mind — All of these, oh best beloved, Happiest present dreams and past, In thy love find safe fulfillment, Ripened into truths at last; Faith and beauty, hope and duty To one center gather fast. How my nature, like an ocean, At the breath of thine awakes, Leaps its shores in mad exulting And in foamy thunder breaks, Then downsinking, lieth shrinking At the tumult that it makes! Blazing Hesperus hath sunken Low within the pale-blue west, And with golden splendor crowneth The horizon's piny crest; Thoughtful quiet stills the riot Of wild longing in my breast. Home I loiter through the moonlight, Underneath the quivering trees, LEE S MISERABLES. Which, as if a spirit stirred them, Sway and bend, till by degrees The far surge's murmur merges In the rustle of the breeze. LEE'S MISERABLES. They called themselves Lee's Miserables. The name had a somewhat curious origin. Victor Hugo's novel, Les Miserables, had been translated and published by a house in Richmond. The soldiers, in the great dearth of reading matter, had seized upon it, and so by a strange chance the tragic story of the great French writer had become known to the soldiers in the trenches. Little familiar with the Gallic pronunciation, they called the book Lee's Miserables. Then another step was taken. The worn veterans of the army laughed at their miseries and called themselves Lee's Miserables, And, truly, they were the wretched. A little grease and corn bread, the grease rancid and the bread musty — this was the food of the army. Thousands had no blankets, no jackets, no shoes. Gaunt forms in ragged old shirts and torn trousers clutched their muskets. Day after day, week after week, month after month they were there, in the trenches, at the grim work; and some fiat of Destiny seemed to have chained them there to battle forever. Silence had fled from the trenches. The crash of musketry and the bellow of artillery seemed never to cease. The men were rocked to sleep by it. They slept on, though mortar shells rose, described their flaming courses, and bursting, rained fragments of death-dealing iron upon them. To many that was their last sleep. The iron tore them in their tanned blankets. They rose gasping, streaming with blood, then staggered and fell. When you passsed by you saw some- thing lying on the ground, covered with an old blanket. It was one of Lee's Miserables, killed last night and gone to answer before his Master. The trenches! Ah, the trenches! Where a historic army guarded the capital of a historic nation — the nation of Vir- ginia. And how they guarded it! In the bright day and dark, they stood by their posts unmoved. When you saw •the gaunt faces contract and the tears flow, it was because 202 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. some letter had come, saying that their wives and children were starving. Army of Northern Virginia! Old soldiers of Lee! You meant to follow your commander to the last. You did not shrink in the final hour, the hour of supreme trial. Did they, or did they not, fight to the end? Answer, Wilder- ness, Spottsylvania, Cold Harbor — every spot around Peters- burg where they closed in death grapple with the unwearied enemy! Answer, bleak spring of '65, trouble days of the great retreat, when, hunted down and driven to bay like wild animals, they fought from Five Forks to Appomattox Court House, fought staggering, starving, falling; but defi- ant to the last! Bearded men were seen crying on the 9th of April, '65. But it was surrender which wrung their hearts and brought tears to their eyes. Grant's cannons had only made Lee's Miserables cheer and laugh. THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. Lord Byron. I. My hair is gray, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears; My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, But rusted with a vile repose; For they have been a dungeon's spoil, And mine has been the fate of those To whom the goodly earth and air Are banned and barred — forbidden fare. But this was for my father's faith I suffered chains and courted death. That father perished at the stake For tenets he would not forsake; And for the same his lineal race In darkness found a dwelling-place. We were seven, who now are one — Six in youth, and one in age, Finished as they had begun, Proud of persecution's rage: THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 203 One in fire, and two in field, Their belief with blood have sealed — Dying as their father died, For the God their foes denied; Three were in a dungeon cast, Of whom this wreck is left the last. 11. They chained us each to a column stone; And we were three — yet, each alone. We could not move a single pace; We could not see each other's face, But with that pale and livid light That made us strangers in our sight; And thus together, yet apart — Fettered in hand, but joined in heart; 'Twas still some solace, in the dearth Of the pure elements of earth, To hearken to each other's speech, And each turn comforter to each — With some new hope, or legend old, Or song heroically bold; But even these at length-grew cold. Our voices took a dreary tone, An echo of the dungeon-stone, A grating sound — not full and free, As they of yore were wont to be; It might be fancy — but to me They never sounded like our own. in. I said my nearer brother pined, I said his mighty heart declined. He loathed and put away his food; It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, For we were used to hunter's fare, And for the like had little care. The milk drawn from the mountain goat Was changed for water from the moat; Our bread was such as captives' tears Have moistened many a thousand years, Since man first pent his fellow-men, Like brutes, within an iron den, 204 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. But what were these to us or him? These wasted not his heart or limb; My brother's soul was of that mold Which in a palace had grown cold Had his free breathing been denied The range of the steep mountain's side. But why delay the truth? — he died. I saw, and could not hold his head, Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. He died — and they unlocked his chain, And scooped for him a shallow grave Even from the cold earth of our cave. I begged them, as a boon, to lay His corse in dust whereon the day Might shine — it was a foolish thought; But then within my brain it wrought That even in death his freeborn breast In such a dungeon could not rest. I might have spared my idle prayer — They coldly laughed, and laid him there, The flat and turfless earth above The being we so much did love; His empty chain above it leant — Such murder's fitting monument! IV. But he, the favorite and the flower, Most cherished since his natal hour, His mother's image in fair face, The infant love of all his race, His martyred father's dearest thought, My latest care — for whom I sought To hoard my life, that his might be Less wretched now, and one day free — He, too, who yet had held untired A spirit natural or inspired — He, too, was struck, and day by day Was withered on the stalk away. O God! it is a fearful thing To see the human sonl take wing In any shape, in any mood: THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 205 I've seen it rushing forth in blood; I've seen it on the breaking ocean Strive with a swollen, convulsive motion; I've seen the sick and ghastly bed Of sin, delirious with its dread; But these were horrors — this was woe Unmixed with such — but sure and slow. He faded, and so calm and meek, So softly worn, so sweetly weak, So tearless, yet so tender — kind, And grieved for those he left behind; With all the while a cheek whose bloom Was as a mockery of the tomb, Whose tints as gently sunk away As a departing rainbow's ray — An eye of most transparent light, That almost made the dungeon bright, And not a word of murmur, not A groan o'er his untimely lot — A little talk of better days, A little hope my own to raise; For I was sunk in silence — lost In this last loss, of all the most. And then the sighs he would suppress Of fainting nature's feebleness, More slowly drawn, grew less and less. I listened, but I could not hear — I called, for I was wild with fear; I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread Would not be thus admonished; I called, and thought I heard a sound — I burst my chain with one strong bound, And rushed to him: I found him not. I only stirred in this black spot; I only lived — I only drew The accursed breath of dungeon dew; The last, the sole, the dearest link Between me and the eternal brink, Which bound me to my failing race, Was broken in this fatal place. One on the earth, and one beneath — My brothers — both had ceased to breathe. I took that hand which lay so still — 206 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. Alas! my own was full as chill; I had not strength to stir or strive, But felt that I was still alive — A frantic feeling, when we know That what we love shall ne'er be so. I know not why I could not die, I had no earthly hope — but faith, And that forbade a selfish death. v. What next befel me then and there I know not well — I never knew. First came the loss of light and air, And then of darkness too. I had no thought, no feeling — none: Among the stones I stood a stone; And was, scarce conscious what I wist, As shrubless crags within the mist; For all was blank, and bleak, and gray; It was not night — it was not day; It was not even the dungeon-light, So hateful to my heavy sight; But vacancy absorbing space, And fixedness, without a place; There were no stars, no earth, no time, No check, no change, no good, no crime, But silence, and a stirless breath Which neither was of life nor death — A sea of stagnant idleness, Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless. VI. A light broke in upon my brain — It was the carol of a. bird; It ceased, and then it came again — The sweetest song ear ever heard; And mine was thankful till my eyes Ran over with the glad surprise, And they that moment could not see I was the mate of misery; But then, by dull degrees came back My senses to their wonted track: THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 207 I saw the dungeon walls and floor Close slowly round me as before; I saw the glimmer of the sun Creeping as it before had done; But through the crevice where it came That bird was perched as fond and tame, And tamer than upon the tree — A lovely bird with azure wings, And song that said a thousand things, And seemed to say them all for me! I never saw its like before — I ne'er shall see its likeness more. It seemed, like me, to want a mate, But was not half so desolate; And it was come to love me when None lived to love me so again, And, cheering from my dungeon's brink, Had brought me back to feel and think. I know not if it late were free, Or broke its cage to perch on mine; But knowing well captivity, Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine — Or if it were, in winged guise, A visitant from Paradise; For — heaven forgive that thought, the while Which made me both to weep and smile! — I sometimes deemed that it might be My brother's soul come down to me; But then at last away it flew, And then 'twas mortal well I knew; For he would never thus have flown, And left me twice so doubly lone — Lone as the corse within its shroud, Lone as a solitary cloud, A single cloud on a sunny day, While all the rest of heaven is clear, A frown upon the atmosphere, That hath no business to appear When skies are blue and earth is gay. VII. A kind of change came in my fate — My keepers grew compassionate. 208 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. * I know not what had made them so — - They were inured to sights of woe; But so it was — my broken chain With links unfastened did remain; And it was liberty to stride Along my cell from side to side, And up and down, and then athwart, And tread it over every part; And round the pillars one by one, Returning where my walk begun — Avoiding only, as I trod, My brothers' graves without a sod; For if I thought with heedless tread My step profaned their lowly bed, My breath came gaspingly and thick, And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. VIII. It might be months, or years, or days — I kept no count, I took no note — I had no hope my eyes to raise, And clear them of their dreary mote; At last came men to set me free, I asked not why, and recked not where; It was at length the same to me, Fettered or fetterless to be; I learned to love despair. And thus, when they appeared at last, And all my bonds aside were cast, These heavy walls to me had grown A hermitage — and all my own! And half I felt as they were come To tear me from a sacred home. With spiders I had friendship made, And watched them in their sullen trade,— Had seen the mice by moonlight play — And why should I feel less than they? We were all inmates of one place, And I, the monarch of each race, Had power to kill; yet, strange to tell! In quiet we had learned to dwell. My very chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends NATIONAL INJUSTICE. 200 To make us what we are: even I Regained my freedom with a sigh. NATIONAL INJUSTICE. Theodore Parker. Do you know how empires find their end? Yes, the great States eat up the little. As with fish, so with nations. Aye, but how do the great States come to an end? By their own injustice. Come with me to the Inferno of the nations, with such poor guidance as my lamp can lend. Let us disquiet and bring up the awful shadows of empires buried long ago, and learn a lesson from the tomb. Come, old Assyria, with the dove of Nineveh upon thy emerald crown! What laid thee low? "I fell by my own injustice." Oh, queenly Persia, flame of the nations, wherefore art thou so fallen — thou that troddest the people under thee, didst bridge the Hellespont with ships, and didst pour thy temple-wasting millions on the Western World? " Because I trod the peo- ple under me, and bridged the Hellespont with ships, and poured my temple-wasting millions on the Western World. I fell by my own misdeeds." Thou muse-like Grecian queen, fairest of all thy classic sisterhood of States, enchant- ing the world with thy sweet witchery speaking in art and most seductive song, why liest thou there, with thy beaute- ous yet dishonored brow reposing on thy broken harp? " I scorned the law of God, banished and prisoned the wisest, justest men. I loved the loveliness of flesh embalmed in Parian stone; I loved the loveliness of thought, and treas- ured that more than Parian speech. But the reality of justice, the loveliness of right, I trod them down. So have I become as one of those barbarian States — as one of them/" Oh, manly, majestic Rome! thy seven -fold mural crown all broken at thy feet, why art thou here.' 'Twas not injustice brought thee low, for thy great book of law was prefaced with these words: "Justice is the unchanging, everlasting will to give each man his Right! " "It was not the saint's ideal, but the hypocrite's pretense. I made iniquity my law. I trod the nations under me. Their wealth gilded my palaces, where now thou mayest see the fox and hear the birds of night. It fed my courtiers and my courtesans. Wicked men were my earliest counselors. The flatterer 2IO ROMANCE OF A HAMMOCK. breathed his poison in my ear. ♦ Millions of bondsmen met the evil with tears and blood. Do you not hear it crying yet to God? So here have I my recompense, tormented with such retribution as ye see. Go back and tell the new- born child who sits upon the Alleghanies, laying his either hand upon a tributary seaj a crown of forty-two stars upon his young brow — tell him there are rights which States must keep, or they shall fall ; tell him there is a God who keeps the black man and the white, and hurls to earth the loftiest realm that breaks His eternal laws. Warn the young em- pire, that he come not down broken and dishonored to my shameful tomb! Tell him that 'Justice is the unchanging, everlasting will to give each man his Right.' I knew it, I broke it — I am lost! Bid him keep it and be safe]" ROMANCE OF A HAMMOCK. Anon. Shady tree — babbling brook, Girl in hammock — reading book. Golden curls— tiny feet, Girl in hammock looks so sweet. Man rides past — big mustache, Girl in hammock makes a " mash." " Mash " is mutual — day is set, Man and maiden — married get. Married now a year and a day, Keeping house in Avenue A. Red-hot stove — beefsteak frying, Girl got married — cooking trying. Cheeks all burning — eyes look red, Girl got married — almost dead. Biscuit burnt up — beefsteak charry, Girl got married — awful sorry. Man comes home — tears mustache, Mad "as blazes — got no cash. Thinks of hammock — in the lane; Wishes maiden — back again. SPIRITS OF THE STORM. 211 Maiden also — thinks of swing, And wants to go back too, poor thing! Hour of midnight — baby squawking; Man in bare feet — bravely walking; The baby yells — now the other Twin, he strikes up — like his brother. Paregoric — by the bottle Poured into — the baby's throttle. Naughty tack — points in air, Waiting some one's — foot to tear. Man in bare feet — see him there! O my gracious! — hear him swear! Raving crazy — gets his gun And blows his head off; Dead and gone. Pretty widow — with a book In the hammock — by the brook. Man rides past — big mustache; Keeps on riding — nary "mash." SPIRITS OF THE STORM. N. J. Clodfetter. Published by permission of the author. Roll, thunders, roll ! On the cold mist of the night, As I watch the streaming light, Lurid, blinking in the south, Like a mighty serpent's mouth Spitting fire. Peal on peal, the thunder's crashing, And the streaming lightning's flashing. Like great giants coming o'er us, Dancing to the distant chorus, In their ire, Sowing fire, 212 SPIRITS OF THE STORM. From the wild sky higher, higher, While the heaving angry motion, Of a great aerial Ocean, Dashes cloud-built ships asunder, As the distant coming thunder Rolls, rolls, rolls, And shakes the great earth to the poles. Roll, thunders, roll! You awake my sleeping soul, To see the war in rage before me, And its dreadful menace o'er me, Lightning, Bightening, Flashing, Dashing: Thunders booming in the distance, Till the earth seems in resistance To the navies sailing higher, O'er the wild clouds dropping fire; And there he comes! the wing'd horse comes, Beneath great Jove, whose mighty arms Hurl thunder-bolts, and heaven drums Her awful roll of sad alarms: He stamps the clouds, and onward prances, As from him the wild lightning glances; By his neigh the world is shaken, And his hoof so fleetly dances That the lightning 's overtaken, And he feeds upon its blazing Shafts, as if he were but grazing; Stops, paws the clouds beneath his form, Then gallops o'er the raging storm; Flies on! his long disheveled mane, Streams wildly through the leaden plane Of the dull skies, The while the drapery of the clouds, Wraps this spirit as in shrouds, Our darting eyes In vague surprise Arise, And trace the wandering course Of heaven's fleet-foot winged horse! SPIRITS OF THE STORM. 213 Roll, thunders, roll! As lightnings in the arching scroll, Streak the heavens in their flight By their dazzling flow of light; While old Neptune, all alone, Is sitting on his mountain throne, O'er the sea, In a mood so lonely, he Thrust his trident by his side, With such force that the great mountain Opens a deep cavern wide, And bursts forth a living fountain Sparkling with its silvery tide; And the Nereids, fifty strong, To the water's babbling song. Like fairy wands From Neptune's hands Sally from this cavern wide, Sailing o'er the gray cold rocks, With their fairy rainbow locks, Down upon the water's brim, Either way the surface skim, Till their taper'd fingers' tips Gently in the water dips; Then beneath the raging skies Neptune in his chariot flies O'er the sea, With his trident in his hand, In a bearing of command, Fitting to his majesty,. He calls to his daughters, To quit the wild waters, — He calls, but they heed not his word: Then his trident he hurls At his sea-nymph girls, But the truants — they flee from their lord. Unto the clouds they go In the whirlwinds of the storm, Arethusa leads the way Wheresoe'er the winds may blow. She lithely moves her graceful form As if she would herself survey, And then she rides the southern wind 214 SPIRITS OF THE STORM. And bids her sister follow, And leave old Neptune far behind, Lord of his mountain hollow, — To nurse his wrath And tread his path, And curse his fairy daughters, — These mountain elves That freed themselves From the lord of ocean's waters. He grasped a trident in his hand That mystic rose at his command, And wildly blew till the great ocean Trembled like an aspen-tree, And winds that were in wild commotion, Whirling through immensity, He'd by his magic art control And gather in a secret scroll And hurl them at his Dorian daughters O'er the heaving angry waters, Till the growling thunders roll, Giving spleen to Neptune's soul As he sees them dart through air, Daughters fifty, all so fair, Free from the Ionian Sea, Designed to be Their destiny. Roll, thunders, roll! Till many church-bells toll Once in unity, Touched by the enchanting wand Of his majesty, Who's arbiter of sea and land, And marks each destiny. But there! The fair-faced nymphs of air, Metamorphosed from the Dorian sea, O'er the waters, Lovely daughters, Through the misty clouds they flee, Their fairy forms Float o'er the storms So swift and magic'ly GARFIELD. 215 That on the wings of the long streaming flashes They ride, and they dance their delight, Wear crowns of electrical dashes, And bask in their dazzling light. Where the deep-voiced thunder peals louder, And the long-sheeted lightnings play fast, We see them peep through the dark cloud, or Ride off on a sulphurous blast. When the storm to its fullness is raging, And all Nature at war seems to be, The cloud-sphere is then more engaging To them than a wild breaking sea. But now the growling, rolling, grumbling, Thunders in the distance mumbling, Fainter, fainter, dying, dying, And the lightning dimmer flying, O'er the dark cloud westward lying, As the morning in her glory Bursts forth like an ancient story, — The while the resting sunbeams light On this dark cloud of the night, And the arching rainbow's given To the spirit-forms of heaven, In a moment unrolled In its pinions of gold, And quick as its birth It o'ercircles the earth: And there the spirits of the storms Sit and rest their weary forms. GARFIELD. James C. Blaine. Surely, if happiness can ever come from the honors or triumphs of this world, on that quiet July morning James A. Garfield may well have been a happy man. No fore- boding of evil haunted him; no slightest premonition of danger clouded his sky. His terrible fate was upon him in an instant. One moment he stood erect, strong, confident in the years stretching peacefully out before him. The next 2l6 GARFIELD. he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless, doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence, and the grave. Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no cause, in the very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand of murder, he was thrust from the full tide of this world's interest, from its hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death — and he did not quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which, stunned and dazed, he could give up life, hardly aware of its relinquishment, but through days of deadly languor, through weeks of agony, that was not less agony because silently borne, with clear sight and calm courage, he looked into his open grave. What blight and ruin met his anguished eyes, whose lips may tell — what brilliant, broken plans, what baffled, high ambitions, what sundering of strong, warm, manhood's friendships, what bitter rendering of sweet house- hold ties! Behind him a proud, expectant nation, a great host of sustaining friends, a cherished and happy mother, wearing the full, rich honors of her early toil and tears; the wife of his youth, whose whole life lay in his; the little boys not yet emerged from childhood's day of frolic; the fair, young daughter; the sturdy sons just springing into closest companionship, claiming every day and every day rewarding a father's love and care; and in his heart the eager, rejoicing power to meet all demand. Before him, desolation and great darkness ! And his soul was not shaken. His countrymen were thrilled with instant, profound, and universal sympathy. Masterful in his mortal weakness, he became the center of a nation's love, enshrined in the prayers of a world. But all the love and all the sympathy could not share with him his suffering. He trod the wine-press alone. With unfal- tering front he faced death. With unfailing tenderness he took leave of life. Above the domoniac hiss of the assassin's bullet he heard the voice of God. With simple resignation he bowed to the Divine decree. As the end drew near, his early craving for the sea returned. The stately mansion of power had been to him the weari- some hospital of pain, and he begged to be taken from its prison walls, from its oppressive, stifling air, from its home- lessness and hopelessness. Gently, silently, the love of a great nation bore the pale sufferer to the longed-for healing of the sea, to live or to die, as God should will, within sight FORGIVE AND FORGET. 217 of its heaving billows, within sound of its manifold voices. With wan, fevered face tenderly lifted to the cooling breeze, he looked out wistfully upon the ocean's changing wonders; on its fair sails, whitening in the morning light; on its rest- less waves, rolling shoreward to break and die beneath the noonday sun; on the red clouds of evening, arching low to the horizon; on the serene and shining pathway of the stars. Let us think that his dying eyes read a mystic meaning which only the rapt and parting soul may know. Let us believe that in the silence of the receding world he heard the great waves breaking on a further shore, and felt already upon his wasted brow the breath of the eternal morning. FORGIVE AND FORGET. M. F. Tupper. When streams of unkindness as bitter as gall, Bubble up from the heart to the tongue, And Meekness is writhing in torment and thrall, By the hands of Ingratitude wrung — In the heat of injustice, unwept and unfair, While the anguish is festering yet, None, none but an angel of God can declare, "I now can forgive and forget." But, if the bad spirit is chased from the heart, And the lips are in penitence steeped, With the wrong so repented the wrath will depart, Though scorn on injustice were heaped; For the best compensation is paid for all ill, When the cheek with contrition is wet, And every one feels it is possible still At once to forgive and forget. To forget? It is hard for a man with a mind, However his heart may forgive, To blot out all insults and evils behind, And but for the future to live: Then how shall it be? for at every turn Recollection the spirit shall fret, Aud the ashes of injury smolder and burn, Though we strive to forgive and forget. 215 SOLILOQUY OF THE GAMBLERS WIFE. Oh, hearken! my tongue shall the riddle unseal, And mind shall be partner with heart, While thee to thyself I bid conscience reveal, And show thee how evil thou art: Remember thy follies, thy sins, and — thy crimes, How vast is that infinite debt! Yet Mercy hath seven by seventy times Been swift to forgive and forget! Brood not on insults or injuries old, For thou art injurious too — Count not their sum till the total is told, For thou art unkind and untrue: And if all thy harms are forgotten, forgiven, Now mercy with justice is met; Oh, who would not gladly take lessons of heaven, Nor learn to forgive and forget? Yes, yes; let a man when his enemy weeps, Be quick to receive him a friend; For thus on his head in kindness he heaps Hot coals — to refine and amend; And hearts that are Christian more eagerly yearn, As a nurse on her innocent pet, Over lips that, once bitter, to penitence turn, And whisper, Forgive and Forget. SOLILOQUY OF THE GAMBLER'S WIFE. Coates. "Dark is the night! How dark! No light! No fire! Cold on the hearth, the last faint sparks expire! Shivering, I watch by the cradle side For him, who pledged his love! Last year a bride! "Hark! 'Tis his footstep! No!— 'Tis past!— Tis gone! Tick! — Tick! — How wearily the time crawls on! Why should he leave me thus? — He once was kind! And I believed 'twould last!— How mad! — How blind! " Rest thee, my babe! — Rest on! — 'Tis hunger's cry! Sleep! — for there is no food! — The font is dry! PLEASURES OF HOPE. 210. Famine and cold their wearying work have done: My heart must break! And thou! — The clock strikes one, "Hush! 'tis the dice-box! Yes! he's there! he's there! For this! — for this he leaves me to despair! Leaves love! leaves truth! his wife! his child! for what? The wanton's smile — the villain — and the sot! " Yet I'll not curse him! No! 'tis all in vain! 'Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come again! And I could starve, and bless him, but for you, My child! — his child! Oh, fiend! — The clock strikes two.' I Hark! How the sign-board creaks! The blast howls by! Moan! moan! A dirge swells through the cloudy sky! Ha! 'tis his knock! he comes! — he comes once more! 'Tis but the lattice flaps! My hope is o'er! " Can he desert us thus! He knows I stay, Night after night, in loneliness, to pray For his return, — and yet he sees no tear! No! no! It cannot be! He will be here! I Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart! Thou'rt cold! Thou'rt freezing! But we will not part! Husband! — I die! — Father! — It is not he! Oh, God! protect my child! " They're dead! The clock struck three. PLEASURES OF HOPE. Campbell. At summer's eve, when heavens aerial bow Spans, with bright arch, the glittering hills below, Why, to yon mountain, turns the musing eye, Whose sun-bright summit mingles with the sky? Why do those hills, of shadowy tint, appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near?. 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain with its azure hue. Thus, with delight, we linger to survey The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; 220 THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. Thus, from afar, each dim discovered scene More pleasing seems, than all the past has been; And every form that fancy can repair From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. What potent spirit guides the raptured eye, To pierce the shades of dim futurity? Can wisdom lend, with all her boasted power, The pledge of joy's anticipated hour? Ah, no! she darkly sees the fate of man, Her dim horizon bounded to a span; Or if she holds an image to the view, 'Tis nature x pictured too severely true. With thee, sweet Hope, resides the heavenly light, That pours remotest rapture on the sight; Thine is the charm of life's bewildered way, That calls each slumbering passion into play. Eternal Hope! when yonder spheres sublime Pealed their first notes to sound the march of time, Thy joyous youth began, but not to fade; When all the sister planets have decayed, When, wrapt in fire, the realms of ether glow, And heaven's last thunder shakes the world below,- Thou undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile, And light thy torch at nature's funeral pile. THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. John Greenleaf Whittier. Gray searcher of the upper air! There's sunshine on thy ancient walls — ■ A crown upon the forehead bare — A flashing on thy water-falls — A rainbow glory in the cloud, Upon thy awful summit bowed, Dim relic of the recent storm! And music, from the leafy shroud Which wraps in green thy giant form, THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 221 Mellowed and softened from above, Steals down upon the listening ear, Sweet as the maiden's dream of love, With soft tones melting on her ear. The time has been, gray mountain, when Thy shadows veiled the red man's home; And over crag and serpent den, And wild gorge, where the steps of men In chase or battle might not come, The mountain eagle bore on high The emblem of the free of soul; And midway in the fearful sky Sent back the Indian's battle-cry, Or answered to the thunder's roll. The wigwam fires have all burned out — The moccasin hath left no track — Nor wolf nor wild-deer roam about The Saco or the Merrimack, And thou that liftest up on high Thine awful barriers of the sky, Art not the haunted mount of old, When on each crag of blasted stone Some mountain-spirit found a throne, And shrieked from out the thick cloud-fold, And answered to the Thunderer's cry When rolled the cloud of tempest by, And jutting rock and riven branch Went down before the avalanche. The Father of our people then Upon thy awful summit trod, And the red dwellers of the glen Bowed down before the Indian's God. There, when His shadow veiled the sky, The Thunderer's voice was long and loud, And the red flashes of His eye Were pictured on the o'erhanging cloud. The Spirit moveth there no more, The dwellers of the hill have gone, :22 THE INDIAN S TALE. The sacred groves are trampled o'er, And footprints mar the altar-stone. The white man climbs thy tallest rock And hangs him from the mossy steep, Where, trembling to the cloud-fire's shock, Thy ancient prison-walls unlock, And captive waters leap to light, And dancing down from height to height, Pass inward to the far-off deep. Oh, sacred to the Indian seer, Gray altar of the days of old! Still are thy rugged features dear, As when unto my infant ear The legends of the past were told. Tales of the downward sweeping flood, When bowed like reeds thy ancient wood,— ■ Of armed hand and spectral form, Of giants in their misty shroud, And voices calling long and loud In the drear pauses of the storm! Farewell! The red man's face is turned Toward another hunting ground; For where the council-fire has burned, And o'er the sleeping warrior's mound Another fire is kindled now: Its light is on the white man's brow! The hunter race have passed away — Ay, vanished like the morning mist, Or dew-drops by the sunshine kissed, — And wherefore should the red man stay? THE INDIAN'S TALE. By J. G. Whittier. The War-God did not wake to strife— The strong men of our forest land, No red hand grasped the battle-knife At Areouski's high command: — We held no war-dance by the dim And red light of the creeping flame; Nor warrior yell, nor battle hymn Upon the midnight breezes came. THE INDIAN S TALE. 223 There was no portent in the sky, No shadow on the round, bright sun, With light and mirth and melody The long, fair summer days came on. We were a happy people then, Rejoicing in our hunter mood; No foot-prints of the pale-faced men Had marred our forest solitude. The land was ours — this glorious land — With all its wealth of wood and streams; Our warriors strong of heart and hand, Our daughters beautiful as dreams. When wearied at the thirsty noon, We knelt us where the spring gushed up, To taste our Father's blessed boon — Unlike the white man's poison cup. There came unto my father's hut A wan, weak creature of distress; The red man's door is never shut Against the lone and shelterless. And when he knelt before his feet, My father led the stranger in; He gave him of his hunter meat — Alas! it was a deadly sin! The stranger's voice was not like ours — His face at first was sadly pale, Anon 'twas like the yellow flowers Which tremble in the meadow gale: And when he laid him down to die, And murmured of his fatherland, My mother wiped his tearful eye, My father held his burning hand! He died at last — the funeral yell Rang upward from his burial sod, And the old Powwah knelt to tell The tidings to the. white man's God! The next day came — my father's brow Grew heavy with a fearful pain, He did not take his hunting-bow — He never sought the woods again! 2 24 DARKNESS. He died even as the white man died; My mother, she was smitten too; My sisters vanished from my side, Like diamonds from the sunlit dew. And then we heard the Powwahs say That God had sent his angel forth To sweep our ancient tribes away, And poison and unpeople Earth. And it was so: from day to day The spirit of the Plague went on — And those at morning blithe and gay Were dying at the set of sun. They died — our free, bold hunters died— The living might not give them graves, Save when along the water-side They cast them to the hurrying waves. The carrion crow, the ravenous beast, Turned loathing from the ghastly dead; Well might they shun the funeral feast By that destroying angel spread! One after one the red men fell, Our gallant war-tribe passed away, And I alone am left to tell The story of its swift decay. Alone — alone — a withered leaf, Yet clinging to its naked bough; The pale race scorn the aged chief, And I will join my fathers now. The spirits of my people bend At midnight from the solemn West, To me their kindly arms extend, To call me to their home of rest! DARKNESS. Lord Byron. I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars Did wander, darkling, in the eternal space, Rayless and pathless, and the icy earth DARKNESS. 225 Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air. Morn came, and went — and came, and brought no day, And men forgot their passions, in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light. And they did live by watch-fires; and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings, the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons: cities were consumed, And men were gathered round their blazing homes, To look once more into each other's face. Happy were those who dwelt within the eye Of the volcanoes and their mountain torch. A fearful hope was all the world contained: Forests were set on fire; but, hour by hour, They fell and faded; and the crackling trunks Extinguished with a crash — and all was black. The brows of men, by their despairing light, Wore an unearthly aspect, as, by fits, The flashes fell upon them. Some lay down, And hid their eyes, and wept; and some did rest Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled; And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up, With mad disquietude, on the dull sky, The pall of a past world; and then again With curses, cast them down upon the dust, And gnashed their teeth, and howled. The wild birds shrieked And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And flap their useless wings: the wildest brutes Came tame, and tremulous; and vipers crawled And twined themselves among the multitude, Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food. And War, which for a moment was no more, Did glut himself again: — a meal was bought With blood, and each sat sullenly apart, Gorging himself in gloom; no love was left; All earth was but one thought — and that was death, Immediate and inglorious; and the pang Of famine fed upon all entrails. Men 226 DARKNESS. Died; and their bones were tombless as their flesh The meager by the meager were devoured. Even dogs assailed their masters, — all save one, And he was faithful to a corse, and kept The birds, and beasts, and famished men at bay, Till hunger clung them, or the drooping dead . Lured their lank jaws: himself sought out no food, But, with a piteous, and perpetual moan, And a quick, desolate cry, licking the hand Which answered not with a caress — he died. The crowd was famished by degrees. But two Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies. They met beside The dying embers of an altar- place, Where had been heaped a mass of holy things For an unholy usage. They raked up, And, shivering, scraped with their cold, skeleton hands The feeble ashes ; and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame, Which was a mockery. Then they lifted Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld Each other's aspects — saw, and shrieked, and died; Even of their mutual hideousness they died, Unknowing who he was, upon whose brow Famine had written Fiend. The world was void: The populous and the powerful was a lump, Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless: A lump of death, a chaos of hard clay. The rivers, lakes, and ocean, all stood still, And nothing stirred within their silent depths. Ships, sailorless, lay rotting on the sea, And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropped They slept on the abyss, without a surge, — The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave; The moon, their mistress, had expired before; The winds were withered in the stagnant air. And the clouds perished: Darkness had no need Of aid from them — she was the universe. VALUABLE HINTS FOR STUDENTS. 227 VALUABLE HINTS FOR STUDENTS. Todd. The human mind is the brightest display of the power and skill of the Infinite mind with which we are acquainted. It is created and placed in this world to be educated for a higher state of existence. Here its faculties begin to unfold, and those mighty energies, which are to bear it forward to unending ages, begin to discover themselves. The object of training such a mind should be, to enable the soul to fulfill her duties well, here, and to stand on high vantage-ground, when she leaves this cradle of her being, an eternal exist- ence beyond the grave. Most students need encouragement to sustain, instruction to aid, and directions to guide them. Few, probably, ever accomplish any thing like as much as they expected or ought; and it is thought one reason is, that they waste a vast amount of time in acquiring that experience which they need. The reader will please bear in mind, that the only object here contemplated is, to throw out such hints and cautions, and to give such specific directions, as will aid him to be- come all that the fond hopes of his friends anticipate, and all that his own heart ought to desire. Doubtless, multi- tudes are now in the process of education, who will never reach any tolerable standard of excellence. Probably some never could; but in most cases, they might. The exceptions are few. In most cases young men do feel a desire, more or less strong, of fitting themselves for respectability and usefulness. You may converse with any man, however distinguished for attainments, or habits of applications, or power of using what he knows, and he will sigh over the remembrance of the past, and tell you, that there have been many fragments of time which he has wasted, and many opportunities which he has lost forever. If he had only seized upon the fleeting advantages, and gathered up the fragments of time, he might have pushed his researches out into new fields, and, like the immortal Bacon, have amassed vast stores of knowledge. The mighty minds that have gone before us, have left treasures for our inheritance; and the choicest gold is to be had for the digging. Hence, all that you ever have, must be 228 VALUABLE HINTS FOR STUDENTS. the result of labor — hard, untiring labor. You have friends to cheer you on; you have books and teachers to aid you, and multitudes of" helps. But, after all, disciplining and educating your mind, must be your own work. No one can do this but yourself; and nothing in this world is of any worth, which has not labor and toil as its price. The first and great object of education is, to discipline the mind. Make it the first object to be able to fix and hold your attention upon your studies. He who can do this, has mastered many and great difficulties; and he who cannot do it, will in vain look for success in any department of study. To effect any purpose of study, the mind must be concentrated. Patience, too, is a virtue, kindred to atten- tion; and without it, the mind cannot be said to be dis- ciplined. Patient labor and investigation are not only essential to success in study, but are an unfailing guarantee to success. In addition to attention and patient perseverance, the student should learn to think and act for himself. True orginality consists in doing things well, and doing them in our way. A mind, half-educated, is generally imitating others; and no man was ever great by imitation. Let it therefore be remembered, that we cannot copy greatness or goodness by any effort. We must acquire them, if ever attained, by our own patience and diligence. Students are also in danger of neglecting the memory. This is a faculty, of mind too valuable to be neglected; for by it wonders are sometimes accomplished. He who has a memory, that can seize with an iron grasp, and retain what he reads, — the ideas, simply, without the language, and judg- ment to compare and balance, — will scarcely fail of being distinguished. Why has that mass of thought, observation, and experience, which is embodied in books by the multi- tude of minds which have gone before us, been gathered, if not that we may use it, and stand on high ground and push our way still further into the boundless regions of knowl- edge? Memory is the grand store-house of the mind, capa- ble both of vast improvement and enlarged capacity in proportion as it is properly cultivated. HERVE RIEL. 229 HERVE RIEL. Robert Browning. On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French — woe to France ! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue. Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Ranee, With the English fleet in view. 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase, First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Dam- freville, Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signaled to the place, " Help the winners of a race ! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick — or, quicker still, Here's the English can and will ! " Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped on board; " Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they; " Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the ' Formidable ' here, with her twelve and eighty guns, Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at fall beside ? Now 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring ! Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay ! " Then was called a council straight; Brief and bitter the debate; r Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth sound ? — Better run the ships aground ! " 23O HERVE RIEL. (Ended Damfrcville his speech), " Not a minute more to wait ! Let the captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach ! France must undergo her fate. Give the word! " — But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these — A captain? A lieutenant? A mate — first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet — A poor coasting pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. And " What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Herve Riel; "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell, 'Twixt the offing here and Greve, where the river dis- embogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me, there's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this ' Formidable ' clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them most and least by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor, past Greve, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave — Keel so much as grate the ground — Why, I've nothing but my life; here's my head! " cries Herve Riel. HERVE RIEL. 23 1 Not a minute more to wait! " Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron! " cried its chief. "Captains, give the sailor place! He is admiral, in brief." Still the north wind, by God's grace; See the noble fellows face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound! See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock! Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harbored to the last, And just as Herve Riel hollas " Anchor!" — sure as fate, Up the English come, too late. So the storm subsides to calm; They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Greve; Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. " Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Ranee! " Now hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, "This is Paradise for hell! Let France, let France's king, Thank the man that did the thing! " What a shout, and all one word, "Herve Riel!" As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes — Just the same man as before. Then said Damfreville, " My friend, I must speak out at the end, 232 HERVE RIEL. Though I find the speaking hard; Praise is deeper than the lips, You have saved the king his ships, You must name your own reward. Faith, our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content, and have! or my name's not Dam- freville." Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: " Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty's done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run? — Since 'tis ask and have, I may — Since the others go ashore — Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore! " That he asked, and that he got — nothing more. Name and deed alike are lost; Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell: Not a head in white and black On a single fishing-smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris; rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank; You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. So, for better and for worse, Herve Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore! HANNIBAL TO HIS ARMY. 233 HANNIBAL TO HIS ARMY. Abridgvient from Livy . Here, soldiers, you must either conquer or die! On the right and left two seas inclose you, and you have no ship to fly to for escape. The river Po around you — the Po, larger and more impetuous than the Rhone — the Alps behind, scarcely passed by you when fresh and vigorous, hem you in. Here Fortune has granted you the termination of your labors; here she will bestow a reward worthy of the service you have undergone. All the spoils that Rome has amassed by so many triumphs will be yours. Think not that, in pro- portion as this war is great in name, the victory will be difficult. From the Pillars of Hercules, from the ocean, from the remotest limits of the world, over mountains and rivers, you have advanced victorious through the fiercest nations of Gaul and Spain. And with whom are you now to fight? With a raw army, which this very summer was beaten, conquered, and surrounded! an army unknown to their leader and he to them! Shall I compare myself, almost born and certainly bred in the tent of my father, that illustrious- commander — myself, the conqueror not only of the Alpine Nations but of the Alps themselves — myself, who was the pupil of you all before I became your com- mander — to this six months general? or shall I compare his army with mine ? On what side soever I turn my eyes I behold, all full of courage and strength, a veteran infantry; a most gallant cavalry; you, our allies, most faithful and valiant; you, Carthaginians, whom not only your country's cause but the justest anger impels to battle. The valor, the confidence of invaders are ever greater than those of the defensive party. As the assailants in this war, we pour down, with hostile standards, upon Italy. We bring the war. Suffering, in- jury, and indignity fire our minds. First they demanded me, your leader, for punishment; and then all of you, who had laid siege to Saguntum. And, had we been given up, they would have visited us with the severest tortures. Cruel and haughty nation! Everything must be yours, and at your disposal! You are to prescribe to us with whom we shall have war, with whom peace! You are to shut us up by the boundaries of mountains and rivers, which we must THE CONTRAST : OR PEACE AND WAR. 234 not pass ! But you— you are not to observe the limits your, selves have appointed ! " Pass not the Iberus ! " What next ! " Saguntum is on the Iberus. You must not move a step in any direction ! " Is it a small thing that you have deprived us of our most ancient provinces, Sicily and Sar- dinia? Will you take Spain also? Should we yield Spain, you will cross over into Africa. Will cross, did 1 say ? They have sent the two Consuls of this year, one to Africa, the other to Spain. Soldiers, there is nothing left to us, in any quarter, but what we can vindicate with our swords. Let those be cow- ards who have something to look back upon : whom, flying through safe and unmolested roads, their own country will receive. There is a necessity for us to be brave. There is no alternative but victory or death ! and, if it must be death, who would not rather encounter it in battle than in flight ? The immortal gods could give no stronger incentive to vic- tory. Let but these truths be fixed in your minds, and once again, I proclaim, you are conquerors ! THE CONTRAST : OR PEACE AND WAR. London Athenaeum. PEACE. Lovely art thou, O Peace ! and lovely are thy children, and lovely are the prints of thy footsteps in the green valleys. Blue wreaths of smoke ascend through the trees, and betray the half-hidden cottage ; the eye contemplates well- thatched ricks, and barns bursting with plenty : the peasant laughs at the approach of winter. White houses peep through the trees ; cattle stand cool- ing in the pool ; the casement of the farm-house is covered with jessamine and honeysuckle ; the stately greenhouse exhales the perfume of summer climates. Children climb the green mound of the rampart, and ivy holds together the half-demolished buttress. The old men sit at their doors ; the gossip leans over her counter ; the children shout and frolic in the streets. The housewife's stores of bleached linen, whiter than 235 THE CONTRAST : OR PEACE AND WAR. snow, are laid up with fragrant herbs ; they are the pride of the matron, the toil of many a winter's night. The wares of the merchant are spread abroad in the shops, or stored in the high-piled warehouses ; the labor of each profits all ; the inhabitant of the north drinks the fragrant herb of China ; the peasant's child wears the webs of Hindostan. The lame, the blind, and the aged repose in hospitals : the rich, softened by prosperity, pity the poor ; the poor, disciplined into order, respect the rich. Justice is dispensed to all. Law sits steady on her throne, and the sword is her servant. WAR. They have rushed through like a hurricane ; like an army of locusts they have devoured the earth ; the war has fallen like a water-spout, and deluged the land with blood. The smoke rises not through the trees, for the honors of the grove are fallen, and the hearth of the cottager is cold ; but it rises from villages burned with fire, and from warm ruins spread over the now naked plain. The ear is filled with the confused bellowing of oxen, and sad bleating of overdriven sheep ; they are swept from their peaceful plains ; with shouting and goading are they driven away : the peasant folds his arms, and resigns his faithful fellow-laborers. The farmer weeps over his barns consumed by fire, and his demolished roof, and anticipates the driving of the winter snows. On that rising ground, where the green turf looks black with fire, yesterday stood a noble mansion ; the owner had said in his heart : " Here will I spend the evening of my days, and enjoy the fruit of my years of toil ; my name shall descend with mine inheritance, and my children's children shall sport under the trees which I have planted." The fruit of his years of toil is swept away in a moment ; wasted, not enjoyed ; and the evening of his days is left desolate. The temples are profaned ; the soldier's curse resounds in the house of God ; the marble pavement is trampled by iron hoofs ; horses neigh beside the altar. Law and order are forgotten ; violence and rapine are abroad ; the golden cords of society are loosed. 236 HOHENLINDEN. Here are the shriek of woe and the cry of anguish ; and there is suppressed indignation bursting the heart with silent despair. The groans of the wounded are in the hospitals, and by the roadside, and in every thicket ; and the housewife's web, whiter than snow, is scarcely sufficient to stanch the blood of her husband and children. Look at that youth, the first- born of her strength ; yesterday he bounded as the roebuck; was glowing as the summer fruits ; active in sports, strong to labor ; he has passed in one moment from youth to age ; his comeliness is departed ; helplessness is his portion for the days of future years. He is more decrepit than his grandsire, on whose head are the snows of eighty winters ; but those were the snows of nature ; this is the desolation of man. Everything unholy and unclean comes abroad from its lurking-place, and deeds of darkness are done beneath the eye of day. The villagers no longer start at horrible sights; the soothing rites of burial are denied, and human bones are tossed by human hands. No one careth for another ; every one, hardened by mis- ery, careth for himself alone. Lo, these are what God has set before thee, child of rea- son ! son of woman ! unto which does thine heart incline? HOHENLINDEN. Thomas Campbell. On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow ; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed To join the dreadful revelry. OBLIGATIONS OF AMERICA TO ENGLAND. 237 Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of Heaven Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave ! Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry ! Few, few shall part where many meet ! The snow shall be their winding sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulcher. OBLIGATIONS OF AMERICA TO ENGLAND. Edward Everett. What citizen of our republic does not feel, what reflect- ing American does not acknowledge, the incalculable ad- vantages derived to this land out of the deep fountains of civil, intellectual, and moral truth, from which we have drawn in England ? What American does not feel proud that his fathers were the countrymen of Bacon, of Newton, and of Locke ? Who does not know that, while every pulse of civil liberty in the heart of the British empire beat warm and full in the bosom of our ancestors, the sobriety, the firmness, and the dignity with which the cause of free principles struggled into existence here, constantly found encouragement and countenance from the friends of liberty there ? 238 OBLIGATIONS OF AMERICA TO ENGLAND. Who does not remember that, when the pilgrims went over the sea, the prayers of the faithful British confessors, in all the quarters of their dispersion, went over with them, while their aching eyes were strained till the stars of hope should go up in the western skies ! And who will ever forget that, in that eventful struggle which severed these youthful republics from the British crown, there was not heard, throughout our continent in arms, a voice which spoke louder for the rights of America, than that of Burke or of Chatham within the^walls of the British Parliament, and at the foot of the British throne ? No ; for myself, I can truly say that, after my native land, I feel a tenderness and a reverence for that of my fathers. The pride I take in my own country makes me respect that from which we are sprung. In touching the soil of England, I seem to return, like a descendant, to the old family seat ; to come back to the abode of an aged and venerable parent. I acknowledge this great consanguinity of nations. The sound of my native language, beyond the sea, is as music to my ear, beyond the richest strains of Tuscan softness or Castilian majesty. I am not yet in a land of strangers, while surrounded by the manners, the habits, and the institutions under which I have been brought up. I wander, delighted, through a thousand scenes which the historians and the poets have made familiar to us, of which the names are interwoven with our earliest associations. I tread with reverence the spots where I can retrace the footsteps of our suffering fathers ; the pleasant land of their birth has a claim on my heart. It seems to me a classic, yea, a holy land, — rich in the memory of the great and good, the champions and the martyrs of liberty, the exiled heralds of truth ; and richer, as the parent of this land of promise in the West. I am not — I need not say I am not — the panegyrist of England. I am not dazzled by her riches, nor awed by her power. The scepter, the miter, and the coronet — stars, garters, and blue ribbons — seem to me poor things for great men to contend for. Nor is my admiration awakened by her armies mustered for the battles of Europe, her navies overshadowing the ocean, nor her empire, grasping the farthest East., It is these, and the price of guilt and blood by which they are too often maintained, which are the cause SPEECH ON THE AMERICAN WAR. 239 why no friend of liberty can salute her with undivided affections. But it is the cradle- and the refuge of free principles, though often persecuted ; the school of religious liberty, the more precious for the struggles through which it has passed ; the tombs of those who have reflected honor on all who speak the English tongue ; it is the birthplace of our fathers, the home of the pligrim. It is these which I love and venerate in England. 1 should feel ashamed of an en- thusiasm for Italy and Greece, did I not also feel it for a land like this. In an American, it would seem to me de- generate and ungrateful to hang with passion upon the traces of Homer and Virgil, and follow without emotion the nearer and plainer footsteps of Shakespeare and Milton. I should think him cold in his love for his native land, who felt no melting in his heart for that other native country which holds the ashes of his forefathers. SPEECH ON THE AMERICAN WAR. Lord Chatham. I rise, my Lords, to declare my sentiments on this most solemn and serious subject. It has imposed a load upon my mind, which, I fear, nothing can remove, but which impels me to endeavor its alleviation, by a free and unre- served communication of my sentiments. In the first part of the address I have the honor of heartily concurring with the noble earl who moved it. No man feels sincerer joy than I do ; none can offer more genuine con- gratulations on every accession of strength to the Protestant succession. I therefore join in every congratulation on the birth of another princess, and the happy recovery of her Majesty. But I must stop here. My courtly complaisance will carry me no further. I will not join in congratulation on misfortune and disgrace. I cannot concur in a blind and servile address, which approves and endeavors to sanctify the monstrous measures which have heaped disgrace and misfortune upon us. This, my Lords, is a perilous and tremendous moment ! It is not a time for adulation. The smoothness of flattery cannot now avail — cannot save us 24O SPEECH ON THE AMERICAN WAR. in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now necessary to instruct the Throne in the language of truth. We must dispel the illusion and the darkness which envelop it, and display, in its full danger and true colors, the ruin that is brought to our doors. This, my Lords, is our duty. It is the proper function of this noble assembly, sitting, as we do, upon our honors in this house, the hereditary council of the Crown. Who is the minister — where is the minister, that has dared to sug- gest to the Throne the contrary, unconstitutional language this day delivered from it ? The accustomed language from the Throne has been application to Parliament for advice, and a reliance on its constitutional advice and assistance. As it is the right of Parliament to give, so it is the duty of the Crown to ask it. But on this day, and in this extreme momentous exigency, no reliance is reposed on our consti- tutional counsels ! no advice is asked from the sober and enlightened care of Parliament ! but the Crown, from itself and by itself, declares an unalterable determination to pursue measures — and what measures, my Lords ? The measures that have produced the imminent perils that threaten us ; the measures that have brought ruin to our doors. Can the minister of the day now presume to expect a con- tinuance of. support in this ruinous infatuation ! Can Par- liament be so dead to its dignity and its duty as to be thus deluded into the loss of the one and the violation of the other ? To give an unlimited credit and support for the steady perseverance in measures not proposed for our par- liamentary advice, but dictated and forced upon us — in measures, I say, my Lords, which have reduced this late flourishing empire to ruin and contempt ? " But yesterday, and England might have stood against the world ; now none so poor to do her reverence." I use the words of a poet ; but, though it be poetry, it is no fiction. It is a shameful truth that not only the power and strength of this country are wasting away and expiring, but her well-earned glories, her true honor, and substantial dignity are sacri- ficed. France, my Lords, has insulted you ; she has encouraged and sustained America ; and, whether America be wrong or right, the dignity of this country ought to spurn at the offi- cious insult of French interference. The ministers and SPEECH ON THE AMERICAN WAR. 24I ambassadors of those who are called rebels and enemies, are in Paris ; in Paris they. transact the reciprocal interests of America and France. Can there be a more mortifying insult ? Can even our ministers sustain a more humiliating disgrace ? Do they dare to resent it ? Do they presume even to hint a vindication of their honor, and the dignity of the state, by requiring the dismission of the plenipoten- tiaries of America ? Such is the degradation to which they have reduced the glories of England ! The people whom they affect to call contemptible rebels, but whose growing power has at last obtained the name of enemies ; the people with whom they have engaged this country in war, and against whom they now command our implicit support in every measure of desperate hostility — this people, despised as rebels, or acknowledged as enemies, are abetted against you, supplied with every military store, their interests consulted, and their ambassadors entertained, by your inveterate enemy ! and our ministers dare not in- terpose with dignity or effect. Is this the honor of a great kingdom ? Is this the indignant spirit of England, who " but yesterday " gave law to the house of Bourbon ? My Lords, the dignity of nations demands a decisive conduct in a situation like this. My Lords, this ruinous and ignominious situation, where we cannot act with success, nor suffer with honor, calls upon us to remonstrate in the strongest and loudest language of truth, to rescue the ear of majesty from the delusions which surround it. The desperate state of our arms abroad is in part known. I love and honor the English troops. No man thinks more highly of them than I do. I know their virtues and their valor. I know they can achieve any- thing except impossibilities ; and I know that the conquest of English America is an impossibility. You cannot, I venture to say, you cannot conquer Amer- ica. Your armies last war effected everything that could be effected ; and what was it ? It cost a numerous army, under the command of a most able general (Lord Am- herst), now a noble lord in this house, a long and laborious campaign, to expel five thousand Frenchmen from French America. My Lords, you cannot conquer America. What is your present situation there ? We do not know the worst ; but we know that in three campaigns, we "have done noth- ing and suffered much. Besides the. sufferings, perhaps 242 THE PROGRESS OF SOCIETY. total loss of the Northern force, the best appointed army that ever took the field, commanded by Sir William Howe, has retired from the American lines. He was obliged to relinquish his attempt, and with great delay and danger to adopt a new and distinct plan of operations. We shall soon know, and in any event have reason to lament, what may have happened since. As to conquest, therefore, my Lords, I repeat, it is impossible. You may swell every expense and every effort still more extravagantly ; pile and accumulate every assistance you can buy or borrow ; traffic and barter with every little piti- ful German prince that sells and sends his subjects to the shambles of a foreign despot ; your efforts are forever vain and impotent — doubly so from this mercenary aid on which you rely ; for it irritates, to an incurable resentment, the minds of your enemies, to overrun them with the mercenary sons of rapine and plunder, devoting them and their pos- sessions to the rapacity of hireling cruelty ! If I were an American, as I am an Englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my country, I never would lay down my arms— never — never — never. THE PROGRESS OF SOCIETY. William Ellery Charming. What a contrast does the present form with past times ! Not many ages ago the nation was the property of one man, and all its interests were staked in perpetual games of war, for no end but to build up his family, or to bring new terri- tories under his yoke. Society was divided into two classes, the high-born and the vulgar, separated from each other by a great gulf, as impassable as that between the saved and the lost. The people had no significance as individuals, but formed a mass, a machine, to be wielded at pleasure by their lords. In war, which was the great sport of the times, those brave knights, of whose prowess we hear, cased them- selves and their horses in armor, so as to be almost invul- nerable, while the common people on foot, were left, without protection, to be hewn in pieces or trampled down by their betters. Who, that compares the condition of Europe a few years THE PROGRESS OF SOCIETY. 243 ago, with the present state of the world, but must bless God for the change. The grand distinction of modern times, is the emerging of the people from brutal degradation, the gradual recognition of their rights, the gradual diffusion among them of the means of improvement and happiness, the creation of a new power in the state, the power of the people. And it is worthy of remark, that this revolution is due in a great degree to religion, which, in the hands of the crafty and aspiring, had bowed the multitude to the dust, but which, in the fullness of time, began to fulfill its mission of freedom. It was religion, which, by teaching men their near relation to God, awakened in them the consciousness of their impor- tance as individuals. It was the struggle for religious rights, which opened men's eyes to all their rights. It was resistance to religious usurpation, which led men to with- stand political oppression. It was religious discussion, which roused the minds of all classes to free and vigorous thought. It was religion, which armed the martyr and patriot in England against arbitrary power, which braced the spirits of our fathers against the perils of the ocean and wilderness, and sent them to found here the freest and most equal state on earth. Let us thank God for what has been gained. But let us not think everything gained. Let the people feel that they have only started in the race. How much remains to be done! What a vast amount of ignorance, intemperance, coarseness, sensuality, may still be found in our community ! What a vast amount of mind is palsied and lest ! When we think that every house might be cheered by intelligence, disinterestedness, and refinement, and then remember in how many houses the higher powers and affec- tions of human nature are buried as in tombs, what a dark- ness gathers over society ! And how few of us are moved by this moral desolation ! How few understand, that to raise the depressed, by a wise culture, to the dignity of men, is the highest end of the social state ! Shame on us, that the worth of a fellow-creature is so little felt ! I would that I could speak with an awakening voice to the people, of their wants, their privileges, their responsi- bilities. I would say to them : You cannot, without guilt and disgrace, stop where you are. The past and the present call on you to advance. Let what you have gained be an 244 ADDRESS TO THE SUN. impulse to something higher. Your nature is too great to be crushed. You were not created what you are, merely to toil, eat, drink, and sleep, like the inferior animals. If you will, you can rise. No power in society, no hardship in your condition can depress you, keep you down, in knowl- edge, power, virtue, influence, but by your own consent. Do not be lulled to sleep by the flatteries which you hear, as if your participation in the national sovereignty made you equal to the noblest of your race. You have many and great deficiencies to be remedied ; and the remedy lies, not in the ballot-box, not in the exercise of your politi- cal powers, but in the faithful education of yourselves and your children. These tfruths you have often heard and slept over. Awake ! Resolve earnestly on self-culture. Make yourselves worthy of your free institutions, and strengthen and perpetuate them by your intelligence and your virtues. ADDRESS TO THE SUN. Ossian. O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers ! Whence are thy beams, O sun ! thy everlasting light ? Thou comest forth, in thy awful beauty, and the stars hide themselves in the sky ; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone : who can be a companion of thy course ? The oaks of the mountains fall ; the mountains themselves decay with years ; the ocean shrinks and grows again ; the moon herself is lost in heaven ; but thou art forever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests; when thunder rolls, and lightning flies; thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian, thou lookest in vain ; for he beholds thy beams no more, whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season, and thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult then, O son, in the strength of thy youth ! Age is dark and unlovely ; it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. 245 through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills ; the blast of the north is on the plain, the traveler shrinks in the midst of his journey. APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. Lord Byron. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar. I love not man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, ye cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain, Man marks the earth with ruin — his control Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals ; The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war, — These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, — what are they ? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 246 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. Has dried up realms to deserts :— not so thou, Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play — Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, Calm or convulsed — in breeze or gale or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime — The image of Eternity — the throne Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee : thou goest forth, dread, fathomless alone. And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror, — -'t was a pleasing fear ; For I was, as it were, a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. THE PILGRIM FATHERS. Charles Sprague. Behold ! they come — those sainted forms, Unshaken through the strife of storms ; Heaven's winter cloud hangs coldly down, And earth puts on its rudest frown ; But colder, ruder, was the hand That drove them from their own fair land ; Their own fair land — Refinement's chosen seat, Art's trophied dwelling, Learning's green retreat^ By valor guarded, and by victory crowned, For all, but gentle Charity, renowned. With streaming eye yet steadfast heart, Even from that land they dared to part, And burst each tender tie, — THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 247 Haunts, where their sunny youth was passed, Homes, where they fondly hoped at last In peaceful age to die. Friends, kindred, comfort, all they spurned, Their fathers' hallowed graves, And to a world of darkness turned, Beyond a world of waves. When Israel's race from bondage fled, Signs from on high the wanderers led ; But here — Heaven hung no symbol here, Their steps to guide, their souls to cheer ; They saw, through sorrow's lengthening night, Nought but the fagot's guilty light ; The cloud they gazed at was the smoke That round their murdered brethren broke. A fearful path they trod, And dared a fearful doom, To build an altar to their God, And find a quiet tomb. They come ; — that coming who shall tell ? The eye may weep, the heart may swell, But the poor tongue in vain essays A fitting note for them to raise. We hear the after-shout that rings For them who smote the power of kings : The swelling triumph all would share, But who the dark defeat would dare, And boldly meet the wrath and woe That wait the unsuccessful blow? It were an envied fate, we deem, To live a land's recorded theme, When we are in the tomb ; We, too, might yield the joys of home, And waves of winter darkness roam. And tread a shore of gloom, — Knew we those waves, through coming time, Should roll our names to every clime ; Felt we that millions on that shore Should stand, our memory to adore. But no glad vision burst in light Upon the Pilgrims' aching sight ; 248 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. Their hearts no proud hereafter swelled ; Deep shadows veiled the way they held ; The yell of vengeance was their trump of fame, Their monument, a grave without a eame. Yet, strong in weakness, there they stand On yonder ice-bound rock, Stern and resolved, that faithful band, To meet Fate's rudest shock. In grateful adoration now, Upon the barren sands they bow. What tongue e'er woke such prayer As bursts in desolation there ? What arm of strength e'er wrought such power As waits to crown that feeble hour ? There into life an infant empire springs ! There falls the iron from the soul ; There Liberty's young accents roll Up to the King of kings ! To fair creation's farthest bound That thrilling summons yet shall sound ; The dreaming nations shall awake, And to their center earth's old kingdoms shake ; Pontiff and prince, your sway Must crumble from that day. Before the loftier throne of Heaven The hand is raised, the pledge is given, One monarch to obey, one creed to own, — That monarch, God ; that creed, His word alone. Spread out earth's holiest records here, Of days and deeds to reverence dear ; A zeal like this what pious legends tell ? On kingdoms built In blood and guilt, The worshipers of vulgar triumph dwell ; But what exploit with theirs shall page, Who rose to bless their kind — Who left their nation and their age, Man's spirit to unbind ? Who boundless seas passed o'er, And boldly met, in every path, Famine,, and frost, and savage wrath, To dedicate a shore, THE SHIPWRECK. 249 Where Piety's meek train might breathe their vow, And seek their Maker with an unshamed brow ; Where Liberty's glad race might proudly come, And set up there an everlasting home ? O many a time it hath been told, The story of these men of old : For this fair Poetry hath wreathed Her sweetest, purest flower ; For this proud Eloquence hath breathed His strain of loftiest power ; Devotion, too, hath lingered round Each spot of consecrated ground, And hill and valley blessed — There, where our banished fathers strayed, There, where they loved and wept and prayed, There, where their ashes rest,— And never may they rest unsung, While Liberty can find a tongue. Twine, Gratitude, a wreath for them More deathless than the diadem, Who, to life's noblest end, Gave up life's noblest powers, And bade the legacy descend Down, down to us and ours. THE SHIPWRECK. John Wilson. Her giant form O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm, Majestically calm, would go, 'Mid the deep darkness, white as snow ! But gentler now the small waves glide Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side ; So stately her bearing, so proud her array, The main she will traverse forever and aye. Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast ! — Hush ! hush ! thou vain dreamer ! this hour is her last. Five hundred souls in one instant of dread Are hurried o'er the deck ; 250 THE SHIPWRECK. And fast the miserable ship Becomes a lifeless wreck. Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock, Her planks are torn asunder, And down come her masts with a reeling shock, And a hideous crash like thunder. Her sails are draggled in the brine, That gladdened late the skies, And her pendant that kissed the fair moonshine Down many a fathom lies. Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues Gleamed softly from below, And flung a warm and sunny flush O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow, To the coral rocks are hurrying down, To sleep amid colors as bright as their own. Oh ! many a dream was in the ship An hour before her death ; And sights of home with sighs disturbed The sleeper's long-drawn breath. Instead of the murmur of the sea, The sailor heard the humming tree, Alive through all its leaves, The hum of the spreading sycamore That grows before his cottage door, And the swallow's song in the eaves. His arms inclosed a blooming boy, Who listened with tears of sorrow and joy To the dangers his father had passed ; And his wife — by turns she wept and smiled. As she looked on the father of her child Returned to her heart at last. — He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll, And the rush of waters is in his soul. Astounded, the reeling deck he paces, Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces ; The whole ship's crew are there : Wailings around and overhead, Brave spirits stupefied or dead, And madness and despair. Now is the ocean's bosom bare, Unbroken as the floating air ; The ship hath melted quite away, LOCHIEL S WARNING. 25 I Like a struggling dream at break of day. No image meets my wandering eye, But the new-risen sun and the sunny sky. Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapor dull Bedims the waves so beautiful ; While a low and melancholy moan Mourns for the glory that hath flown. LOCHIEL'S WARNING. Thomas Campbell. [Seer, Lochiel.] Seer. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array !. For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight : They rally, they bleed for their kingdom and crown ; Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain, But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 'Tis thine, O Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watchfire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ! O weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead ; For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave — Culloden, that reeks with the blood of the brave. Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer ; Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. Seer. Ha ! langh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn : Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the north ? Lo ! the death shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; 252 LOCHIEL S WARNING. But down let him stoop from his havoc on high I Ah, home let him speed — for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? 'Tis the fire shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie that beacon the darkness of heaven. O, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood ! Lochiel. False wizard, avaunt ! I have marshaled my clan ; Their swords are a thousand., their bosoms are one ! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clan Ranald the dauntless and Moray the proud ; All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — Seer. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day ! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal : 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the blood-hounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo, anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold where he flies on his desolate path ! Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight : Rise ! rise ! ye wild tempests and cover his flight ! 'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors, Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where ? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near ; The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. 253 His death-bell is tolling; O, mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale — Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale. Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. William Edmondstoune Aytoun. Come hither, Evan Cameron ! Come, stand beside my knee. I hear the river roaring down towards the wintry sea ; There's shouting on the mountain-side, there's war within the blast, Old faces look upon me, old forms go trooping past ; I hear the pibroch wailing amidst the din of flight, And my dim spirit wakes again upon the verge of night. 'Twas I that led the Highland host through wild Lochaber's snow, What time the plaided clans came down to battle with Montrose. I've told thee how the Southrons fell beneath the broad clay- more, And how we smote the Campbell clan by Inverlochy's shore. I've told thee how we swept Dundee, and tamed the Lind- say's pride ; But never have I told thee yet how the Great Marquis died ! 254 THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. A traitor sold him to his foes ; O deed of deathless shame ! I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet vvitn one of Assynt's name — Be it upon the mountain's side, or yet within the glen, Stand he in martial gear alone, or backed by armed men — Face him, as thou wouldst face the man who wronged thy sire's renown ; Remember of what blood thou art, and strike the catiff down. They brought him to the Watergate, hard bound with hempen span, As though they held a lion there, and not an unarmed man. They set him high upon a cart — the hangman rode below — They drew his hands behind his back, and bared his noble brow : Then, as a hound is slipped from leash, they cheered — the common throng, And blew the note with yell and shout, and bade him pass along. But when he came, though pale and wan, he looked so great and high, So noble was his manly front, so calm his steadfast eye, — The rabble rout forbore to shout, and each man held his breath, For well they knew the hero's soul was face to face with death. And then a mournful shudder through all the people crept, And some that came to scoff at him, now turned aside and wept. Had I been there with sword in hand, and fifty Camerons by, That day through high Dunedin's streets had pealed the slogan cry. Not all their troops of trampling horse, nor might of mailed men — Not all the rebels in the south had borne us backwards then ! Once more his foot on Highland heath had trod as free as air, Or I, and all who bore my name, been laid around him there. THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. 255 It might not be. They placed him next within the solemn hall, Where once the Scottish kings were throned amidst their nobles all. But there was dust of vulgar feet on that polluted floor, And perjured traitors filled the place where good men sate before. With savage glee came Warristoun to read the murderous doom, And then uprose the great Montrose in the middle of the room. Now by my faith as belted knight, and by the name I bear, And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross that waves above us there — Yea, by a greater, mightier oath, and oh, that such should be! — By that dark stream of royal blood that lies 'twixt you and me, — I have not sought in battle-field a wreath of such renown, Nor hoped I, on my dying day, to win a martyr's crown ! The morning dawned full darkly, the rain came flashing- down, And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt lit up the gloomy town : The thunder crashed across the heaven, the fatal hour was come, Vet aye broke in, with muffled beat, the 'larum of the drum. There was madness on the earth below, and anger in the sky, And young and old, and rich and poor, came forth to see him die. Ah God ! that ghastly gibbet ! how dismal 'tis to see The great, tall, spectral skeleton, the ladder, and the tree ! Hark! Hark! it is the clash of arms, the bells begin to toll — He is coming ! he is coming ! God's mercy on his soul ! One last long peal of thunder — the clouds are cleared away, And the glorious sun once more looks down amidst the dazzling day. He is coming ! he is coming ! — Like a bridegroom from his room Came the hero from his prison to the scaffold and the doom. 256 THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. There was glory on his forehead, there was luster in his eye, And he never walked to battle more proudly than to die : There was color in his visage though the cheeks of all were wan, And they marveled as they saw him pass, that great and goodly man ! A beam of light fell o'er him, like a glory round the shriven, And he climbed the lofty ladder, as it were the path to heaven. Then came a flash from out the cloud, and a stunning thun- der roll, And no man dared to look aloft, for fear was on every soul. There was another heavy sound, a hush and then a groan ! And darkness swept across the sky — the work of death was done ! THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. William Cullen Bryant. Here are old trees — tall oaks and gnarled pines — That stream with gray-green mosses ; here the ground Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet To linger here, among the flitting birds And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass, A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades — Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old — My thoughts go up the long, dim path of years, Back to the earliest days of liberty. O Freedom, thou art not, as poets dream, A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, And wavy tresses, gushing from the cap With which the Roman master crowned his slave When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, Armed to the teeth, art thou ; one mailed hand THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 257 Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword ; thy brow, Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred With tokens of old wars ; thy massive limbs Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee ; They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven. Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep, And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, Have forged thy chain ; yet while he deems thee bound, The links are shivered, and the prison walls Fall outward ; terribly thou springest forth, As springs the flame above a burning pile, And shoutest to the nations, who return Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. Thy birthright was not given by human hands ; Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him, To tend the quiet flock, and watch the stars, And teach the reed to utter simple airs. Thou, by his side, amid the tangled wood, Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, His only foes ; and thou with him didst draw The earliest furrows on the mountain-side, Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself, Thy enemy, although of reverend look, Hoary with many years, and far obeyed, Is later born than thou ; and as he meets The grave defiance of thine elder eye, The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years, But he shall fade into a feebler age ; Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares, And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap His withered hands, and from their ambush call His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien, To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words To charm thy ear ; while his sly imps, by stealth, Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread, That grow to fetters, or bind down thy arms With chains concealed in chaplets. 258 THE ANGEL OF BUENA VISTA. O, not yet Mayst thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by Thy sword ; nor yet, O Freedom, close thy lids In slumber ; for thine enemy never sleeps, And thou must watch and combat till the day Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou rest Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men, These old and friendly solitudes invite Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees Were young upon the unviolated earth, And yet the moss stains on the rock were new, Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. John Greenleaf Whittier. Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward faraway, O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, Who is losing ? who is winning ? are they far or come they near ? Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear. " Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls ; Blood is flowing, men are dying ; God have mercy on their souls ! " Who is losing? who is winning ? — " Over hill and over plain, I see but smoke of cannon, clouding through the mountain rain." Holy Mother ! keep our brothers ! Look, Ximena, look once more : " Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse, Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain course." Look forth once more, Ximena ! " Ah ! the smoke has rolled away ; And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray. THE ANGELS OE BUENA VISTA. 259 Hark ! that sudden blast of bugles ! there the troop of Minon wheels : There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels. " Jesu, pity ! how it thickens ! now retreat and now ad- vance ! Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance ! Down they go, the brave young riders ; horse and foot together fall ; Like a plowshare in the fallow, through them plows the Northern ball." Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and fright- ful on. Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost and who has won ? " Alas ! alas ! I know not ; friend and foe together fall ; O'er the dying rush the living ; pray, my sisters, for them all ! " Lo ! the wind the smoke is lifting ; Blessed Mother, save my brain ! I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain. Now they stagger, blind and bleeding ; now they fall and strive to rise ; Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes ! " Oh, my heart's love ! oh, my dear one ! lay thy poor head on my knee ; Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee ? Canst thou hear me ? Canst thou see ? Oh, my husband, brave and gentle ! oh, my Bernard, look once more ! On the blessed cross before thee ! mercy ! mercy ! all is o'er." Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena ; lay thy dear one down to rest ; Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast ; 260 THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said ; To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid. Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away ; But as tenderly before him, the lorn Ximena knelt, She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol belt. With a stifled cry of horror, straight she turned away her head ; With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead ; But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain, And she raised the cooling water to his parched lips again. Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand, and faintly smiled. Was that pitying face his mother's ? did she watch beside her child ? All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart sup- plied ; With her kiss upon his forehead, " Mother," murmured he, and died. "A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth, From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping lonely, in the North!" Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead, And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled. Look forth once more, Ximena ! " Like a cloud before the wind Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind ; Ah ! they plead in vain for mercy ; in the dust the wounded strive ; Hide your faces, holy angels ! O, thou Christ of God, forgive ! " THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE. 261 Sink, O Night, among thy mountains ! let the cool, gray shadows fall ; Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all ! Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled, In its sheath the saber rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold. But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food ; Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung, And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue. Not wholly lost, O Father ! is this evil world of ours ; Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers ; From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer, And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air. THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE. William Edmondstoune Aytoun. Do not lift him from the bracken, leave him Iving where he fell- Better bier ye cannot fashion : none beseems him half so well As the bare and broken heather, and the hard and trampled sod, Whence his angry soul ascended to the judgment-seat of God ! Winding-sheet we cannot give him — seek no mantle for the dead, Save the cold and spotless covering showered from heaven upon his head. Leave his broadsword as we found it, rent and broken with the blow 262 THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE. That, before he died, avenged him on the foremost of the foe. Leave the blood upon his bosom — wash not off that sacred stain ; Let it stiffen on the tartan, let his wounds unclosed remain, Till the day when he shall show them at the throne of God on high, When the murderer and the murdered meet before then- Judge's eye. Nay — ye should not weep, my children ! leave it to the faint and weak ; Sobs are but a woman's weapons — tears befit a maiden's cheek. Weep not, children of Macdonald ! weep not thou, his orphan heir ; Not in shame, but stainless honor, lies thy slaughtered father there. Weep not — but when years are over, and thine arm is strong and sure, And thy foot is swift and steady on the mountains and the muir, Let thy heart be hard as iron, and thy wrath as fierce as fire, Till the hour when vengeance cometh for the race that slew thy sire ! Till in deep and dark Glenlyon rise a louder shriek of woe, Than at midnight, from their eyrie, scared the eagles of Glencoe ; Louder than the screams that mingled with the howling of the blast, When the murderers' steel was clashing, and the fires were rising fast ; When thy noble father bounded to the rescue of his men, And the slogan of our kindred pealed throughout the startled glen ; When the herd of frantic women stumbled through the mid- night snow, With their fathers' houses blazing, and their dearest dead below ! Oh, the horror of the tempest, as the flashing drift was blown, THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE. 263 Crimsoned with the conflagration, and the roofs went thun- dering down ! Oh, the prayers, the prayers and curses, that together winged their flight From the maddened hearts of many, through that long and woeful night ! — Till the fires began to dwindle, and the shots grew faint and few, And we heard the foeman's challenge only in a far halloo : Till the silence once more settled o'er the gorges of the glen, Broken only by the Cona plunging through its naked den. Slowly from the mountain summit was the drifting veil with- drawn, And the ghastly valley glimmered in the gray December dawn. Better had the morning never dawned upon our dark de- spair ! Black amidst the common whiteness rose the spectral ruins there : But the sight of these was nothing more than wrings the wild dove's breast, When she searches for her offspring round the relics of her nest. For in many a spot the tartan peered above the wintry heap, Marking where a dead Macdonald lay within his frozen sleep. Tremblingly we scooped the covering from each kindred victim's head, And the living lips were burning on the cold ones of the dead. And I left them with their dearest — the dearest charge had every one — Left the maiden with her lover, left the mother with her son. I alone of all was mateless — far more wretched I than they. For the snow would not discover where my lord and hus- band lay. But I wandered up the valley, till I found him lying low, With the gash upon his bosom, and the frown upon his brow — Till I found him lying murdered where he wooed me long ago ! 264 THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE. Woman's weakness shall not shame me — why should I have tears to shed ? Could I rain them down like water, O my hero ! on thy head — Could the cry of lamentation wake thee from thy silent sleep, Could it set thy heart a-throbbing, it were mine to wail and weep ! But I will not waste my sorrow, lest the Campbell women say That the daughters of Clanranald are as weak and frail as they. I had wept thee, hadst thou fallen, like our fathers, on thy shield, When a host of English foemen camped upon a Scottish field— I had mourned thee, hadst thou perished with the foremost of his name, When the valiant and the noble died around the dauntless Graeme ! But I will not wrong thee, husband, with my unavailing cries, Whilst thy cold and mangled body, stricken by the traitor, lies ; Whilst he counts the gold and glory that this hideous night has won, And his heart is big with triumph at the murder he has done. Other eyes than mine shall glisten, other hearts be rent in twain, Ere the heath-bells on thy hillock wither in the autumn rain. Then I'll seek thee where thou sleepest, and I'll veil my weary head, Praying for a place beside thee, dearer than my bridal-bed : And I'll give thee tears, my husband, if the tears remain to me, When the widows of the foeman cry the coronach for thee ! THE INDIANS. 265 THE INDIANS. Charles Sprague. Yet while, by life's endearments crowned, To mark this day we gather round, And to our nation's founders raise The voice of gratitude and praise, Shall not one line lament that lion race, For us struck out from sweet creation's face ? Alas, alas for them ! — those fated bands, Whose monarch tread was on these broad, green lands. Our fathers called them savage, — them, whose bread, In the dark hour those famished fathers fed. We call them savage. O, be just ! Their outraged feelings scan ; A voice comes forth, — 'tis from the dust, — The savage was a man ! Think ye he loved not ? Who stood by, And in his toils took part ? Woman was there to bless his eye, — The savage had a heart ! Think ye he prayed not ? When on high He heard the thunders roll, What bade him look beyond the sky ? The savage had a soul ! I venerate the Pilgrim's cause, Yet for the red man dare to plead. We bow to Heaven's recorded laws, He turned to Nature for a creed. Beneath the pillared dome, We seek our God in prayer ; Through boundless woods he loved to roam, And the Great Spirit worshiped there. But one, one fellow-throb with us he felt; To one divinity with us he knelt ; Freedom, — the self-same freedom we adore, — Bade him defend his violated shore. He saw the cloud, ordained to grow And burst upon his hills in woe ; 266 THE INDIANS. He saw his people withering by, Beneath the invader's evil eye ; Strange feet were trampling on his fathers' bones; At midnight hour he woke to gaze Upon his happy cabin's blaze, And listen to his children's dying groans. He saw, and, maddening at the sight, Gave his bold bosom to the fight ; . To tiger-rage his soul was driven ; Mercy was not, or sought, or given ; The pale man from his lands must fly, — He would be free, or he would die. Alas for them ! — their day is o'er, Their fires are out from hill and shore ; No more for them the wild deer bounds ; The plow is on their hunting grounds ; The pale man's ax rings through their woods ; The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods ; Their pleasant springs are dry ; Their children, — look ! by power oppressed, Beyond the mountains of the west Their children go — to die ! O, doubly lost ! Oblivion's shadows close Around their triumphs and their woes. On other realms, whose suns have set, Reflected radiance lingers yet ; There sage and bard have shed a light That never shall go down in night ; There time-crowned columns stand on high, To tell of them who cannot die ; Even we, who then were nothing, kneel In homage there, and join earth's general peal. But the doomed Indian leaves behind no trace To save his own, or serve another race ; With his frail breath his power has passed away ; His deeds, his thoughts, are buried with his clay ; Nor lofty pile, nor glowing page, Shall link him to a future age, Or give him with the past a rank ; His heraldry is but a broken bow, His history but a tale of wrong and woe, — His very name must be a blank. AMERICAN LABORERS. 267 Cold, with the beast he slew he sleeps ; O'er him no filial spirit weeps ; No crowds throng round, no anthem notes ascend, To bless his coming and embalm his end ; Even that he lived, is for his conqueror's tongue ; By foes alone his death-song must be sung : No chronicles but theirs shall tell His mournful doom to future times ; May these upon his virtues dwell, And in his fate forget his crimes. AMERICAN LABORERS. C. Naylor. The gentleman, sir, has misconceived the spirit and ten- dency of Northern institutions. He is ignorant of northern character. He has forgotten the history of his country. Preach insurrection to the northern laborers ! Who are the northern laborers? The history of your country is their history. The renown of your country is their renown. The brightness of their doings is emblazoned on its every page. Blot from your annals the words and the doings of northern laborers, and the history of your country presents but a universal blank. Sir, who was he that disarmed the Thunderer ; wrested from his grasp the bolts of Jove ; calmed the troubled ocean ; became the central sun of the philosophical system of his age, shedding his brightness and effulgence on the whole civilized world ; whom the great and mighty of the earth delighted to honor ; who participated in the achieve- ment of your independence, prominently assisted in mold- ing your free institutions, and the beneficial effects of whose wisdom will be felt to the last moment of " recorded time " ? Who, sir, I ask, was he? A northern laborer, — a Yankee tallow-chandler's son,— a printer's runaway boy ! And who, let me ask the honorable gentleman, who was he that, in the days of our Revolution, led forth a northern army, — yes, an army of northern laborers,— and aided the chivalry of South Carolina in their defense against British aggression, drove the spoilers from their firesides, and re- deemed her fair fields from foreign invaders ? Who was he ? 268 HYMN OF PRAISE BY ADAM AND EVE. A northern laborer, a Rhode Island blacksmith, — the gal- lant General Greene, — who left his hammer and his forge, and went forth conquering and to conquer in the battle for our independence ! And will you preach insurrection to men like these? Sir, our country is full of the achievements of northern laborers ! Where is Concord, and Lexington, and Princeton, and Trenton, and Saratoga, and Bunker Hill, but in the North ? And what, sir, has shed an imperishable renown on the never-dying names of those hallowed spots, but the blood and the struggles, the high daring, and patriotism, and sublime courage of northern laborers? The whole North is an everlasting monument of the freedom, virtue, intelli- gence, and indomitable independence of northern laborers ! Go, sir, go preach insurrection to men like these ! The fortitude of the men of the North, under intense suf- fering for liberty's sake, has been almost godlike ! History has so recorded it. Who comprised that gallant army, without food, without pay, shelterless, shoeless, penniless, and almost naked, in that dreadful winter, — the midnight of our Revolution, — whose wanderings could be traced by their blood tracks in the snow : whom no arts could seduce, no appeal lead astray, no sufferings disaffect ; but who, true to their country and its holy cause, continued to fight the good fight of liberty, until it finally triumphed ? Who, sir, were these men ? Why, northern laborers ! — yes, sir, northern laborers ! Who, .sir, were Roger Sherman and — but it is idle to enumerate. To name the northern laborers who have distinguished themselves, and illustrated the his- tory of their country, would require days of. the time of this House. Nor is it necessary. Posterity will do them justice. Their deeds have been recorded in characters of fire ! HYMN OF PRAISE BY ADAM AND EVE. John Miltoru These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almighty ! Thine this universal frame, Thus wondrous fair ! Thyself how wondrous then, Unspeakable ! who sittest above these heavens, To us invisible, or dimly seen HYMN OF PRAISE BY ADAM AND EVE. 269 In these thy lowest works ; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, Angels ; for ye behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, day without night, Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heaven, On earth join all ye creatures to extol Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownest the smiling morn With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul, Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climbest, And when high noon hast gained ; and when thou fallest, Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray, Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, In honor to the world's great Author rise ; Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky, Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, Rising or falling, still advance his praise. His praise, ye winds that from four quarters blow, Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines, With every plant, in sign of worship wave. Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Join voices, all ye living souls ; ye birds, That singing up to heaven's gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk The earth and stately tread or lowly creep ; Witness if I be silent, morn or even, To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade, Made local by my song, and taught his praise. Hail, universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us only good ; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or concealed, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. 270 SONG OF THE GREEKS. SONG OF THE GREEKS. Campbell. Again to the battle, Achaians ! Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance.; Our land, — the first garden of Liberty's tree, — It hath been, and shall yet be, the land of the free ; For the cross of our faith is replanted, The pale dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us, And the sword shall to glory restore us. Ah ? what though no succor advances, Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances, Are stretched in our aid ? — Be the combat our own ! And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone ! For we've sworn by our country's assaulters, By the virgins they've dragged from our altars, By our massacred patriots, our children in chains, By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins, That, living, we shall be victorious, Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious. A breath of submission we breathe not : The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not : Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. Earth may hide, waves engulf, fire consume us ; But they shall not to slavery doom us. If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves : But we've smote them already with fire on the waves, And new triumphs on land are before us : To the charge ! — Heaven's banner is o'er us. This day — shall ye blush for its story ; Or brighten your lives with its glory ? Our women — Oh ! say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair ? Accursed may his memory blacken, If a coward there be who would slacken A PARENTAL ODE TO MY INFANT SON. 271 Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from, and named for, the godlike of earth. Strike home ! — and the world shall revere us As heroes descended from heroes. Old Greece lightens up with emotion ! Her inlands, her isles of the ocean, Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns shall with jubilee ring, And the Nine shall new hallow their Helicon's spring. Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness, That were cold, and extinguished in sadness ; Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms, Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms, — When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens ! A PARENTAL ODE TO MY INFANT SON. Hood. Thou happy, happy elf ! (But stop — first let me kiss away that tear) — Thou tiny image of myself ! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear) — Thou merry, laughing sprite ! With spirits feather light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin — (Good heavens ! the child is swallowing a pin !) Thou little tricksy Puck i With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door ! the door ! he'll tumble down the stair !) Thou darling of thy sire ! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire !) Thou imp of mirth and joy ! In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents — (stop the boy ! There goes my ink !) 272 A PARENTAL ODE TO MY INFANT SON. Thou cherub — but of earth ! Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (The dog will bite him if he pulls his tail !) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble — that's his precious nose !) Thy father's pride and hope ! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping rope !) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint ?) Thou young domestic love ! (He'll have that jug off with another shove !) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest ! (Are those torn clothes his best ?) Little epitome of man ! (He'll climb upon the table — that's his plan !) Touched with the beauteous tints of drawing life, (He's got a knife !) Thou enviable being ! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky forseeing, Play on, play on. My elfin John ! Toss the light ball — bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick !) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, nipping at your gown !) Thou pretty opening rose ! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose !) Balmy, and breathing music like the south (He really brings my heart into my mouth !) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar !) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove — (I tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above !) THE PASSIONS. 273 THE PASSIONS. William Collins. When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung-, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possessed beyond the Muse's painting ; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined : Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round, They snatched her instruments of sound ; And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each — for madness ruled the hour — Would prove his own expressive power. First, Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewildered laid : And back recoiled, he knew not why, E'en at the sound himself had made. Next, Anger rushed, 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 ; 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas 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 : 274 THE PASSIONS. And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair. And longer had she sung — but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose : He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down ; And with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ; And, ever and anon, he beat The doubling drum with furious heat ; And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity, at his side, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed ; Sad proof of thy distressful state ! Of differing themes the veering song was mixed ; And, now it courted Love ; now, raving, called on Hate. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired ; And, from her wild, sequestered seat, In notes, by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul ; And, dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay (Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing), In hollow murmurs died away. But, O ! how altered was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung! — EXTRACT FROM RIENZI. 275 The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known ! The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green ; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial ; He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, Amid the festal sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing ; While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round ; (Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound), And he, amid his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. EXTRACT FROM RIENZI. Mary Russell Mitford. And darest talk thou to me of brothers ? Thou, Whose groom — wouldst have me break my own just laws, To save thy brother? thine ! Hast thou forgotten When that most beautiful and blameless boy, The prettiest piece of innocence that ever Breathed in this sinful world, lay at thy feet, Slain by thy pampered minion, and I knelt Before thee for redress, whilst thou — didst never Hear talk of retribution ! This is justice, Pure justice, not revenge ! Mark well, my lords — Pure, equal justice. Martin Orsini Had open trial, is guilty, is condemned, And he shall die ! Lords, If ye could range before me all the peers, 276 TACT AND TALENT. Prelates, and potentates of Christendom — The holy pontiff kneeling at my knee, And emperors crouching at my feet, to sue For this great robber, still I should be blind As justice. But this very day, a wife, One infant folded in her arms, and two Clinging to the poor rags that scarcely hid Her squalid form, grasped at my bridle-rein To beg her husband's life — condemned to die " For some vile petty theft, some paltry scudi — And, whilst the fiery war-horse chafed and reared, Shaking his crest, and plunging to get free, There, midst the dangerous coil unmoved, she stood, Pleading in broken words and piercing shrieks, And hoarse, low, shivering sobs, the very cry Of nature ! And, when I at last said no, — For I said no to her, — she flung herself And those poor innocent babes between the stones And my hot Arab's hoofs. We saved them all — Thank heaven, we saved them all ! but I said no To that sad woman, midst her shrieks. Ye dare not Ask me for mercy now. TACT AND TALENT. London Alias. Talent is something, but tact is everything. Talent is serious, sober, grave, and respectable ; tact is all that, and more too. It is not a sixth sense, but it is the life of all the five. It is the open eye, the quick ear, the judging taste, the keen smell, and the lively touch ; it is the inter- preter of all riddles, the surmounter of all difficulties, the remover of all obstacles. It is useful in all places, and at all times ; it is useful in solitude, for it shows a man his way into the world ; it is useful in society, for it shows him his way through the world. . Talent is power, tact is skill ; talent is weight, tact is momentum ; talent knows what to do, tact knows how to do it ; talent makes a man respectable, tact will make him respected ; talent is wealth, tact is ready money. For all the practical purposes of life, tact carries it against talent, ten to one. Take them to the theater, and TACT AND TALENT. 277 put them against each other on the stage, and talent shall produce you a tragedy that will scarcely live long enough to be condemned, while tact keeps the house in a roar, night after night, with its successful farces. There is no want of dramatic talent, there is no want of dramatic tact ; but they are seldom together : so we have successful pieces which are not respectable, and respectable pieces which are not successful. Take them to the bar, and let them shake their learned curls at each other in legal rivalry. Talent sees its way clearly, but tact is first at its journey's end. Talent has many a compliment from the bench, but tact touches fees from attorneys and clients. Talent speaks learnedly and logically, tact triumphantly. Talent makes the world won- der that it gets on no faster, tact excites astonishment that it gets on so fast. And the secret is, that tact has no weight to carry ; it makes no false steps ; it hits the right nail on the head ; it loses no time ; it takes all hints ; and, by keep- ing its eye on the weathercock, is ready to take advantage of every wind that blows. Take them into the church. Talent has always something worth hearing, tact is sure of abundance of hearers ; talent may obtain a living, tact will make one ; talent gets a good name, tact a great one ; talent convinces, tact converts ; talent is an honor to the profession, tact gains honor from the profession. Take them to court. Talent feels its weight, tact finds its way ; talent commands, tact is obeyed ; talent is honored with approbation, and tact is blessed by preferment. Place them in the senate. Talent has the ear of the house, but tact wins its heart and has its votes ; talent is fit for employment, but tact is fitted for it. Tact has a knack of slipping into place with a sweet silence and glibness of move- ment, as a billiard ball insinuates itself into the pocket. It seems to know everything, without learning anything. It has served an invisible and extemporary apprenticeship ; it wants no drilling ; it never ranks in the awkward squad ; it has no left hand, no deaf ear, no blind side. It puts on no looks of wondrous wisdom, it has no air of profundity, but plays with the details of place as dexterously as a well-taught hand flourishes over the keys of the piano-forte. It has all the air of commonplace, and all the force and power of genius. 278 THE CHURCH-YARD. THE CHURCH-YARD. Nicolai Karamsin. First Voice. How frightful the grave ! how deserted and drear ! With the howls of the storm-wind — the creaks of the bier And the white bones all clattering together ! Second Voice. How peaceful the grave ! its quiet how deep : Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep, And flowrets perfume it with ether. First Voice. There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead, And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed, And snakes in its nettle weeds hiss. Second Voice. How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb : No tempests are there : but the nightingales come, And sing their sweet chorus of bliss. First Voice. The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave : 'Tis the vulture's abode ; 'tis the wolf's dreary cave, Where they tear up the earth with their fangs. Second Voice. There the cony at evening disports with his love, Or rests on the sod ; while the turtles above, Repose on the bough that o'erhangs. First Voice. There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath, And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of death ; The trees are all barren and bare ! the forging of the anchor. 279 Second Voice. O, soft are the breezes that play round the tomb, And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume, With lilies and jessamine fair. First Voice. The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears, Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears, He is launched on the wreck-covered river ! Second Voice. The traveler, outworn with life's pilgrimage dreary, Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary, And sweetly reposes forever. THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. S. Ferguson, Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ; 'tis at a white heat now ; The bellows ceased, the flames decreased ; though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound ; And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare ; Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe; It rises, roars, rends all outright — O Vulcan, what a glow ! 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright ; the high sun shines not so ; The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful show : The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, lurid row Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe : 280 THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing mon- ster slow Sinks on the anvil — all about the faces fiery grow — " Hurrah ! " they shout, " leap out — leap out ! " bang, bang, the sledges go ; Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low ; A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow ; The leathern mail rebounds the hail ; the rattling cinders strow The ground around ; at every bound the sweltering foun- tains flow : And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant " Ho ! " Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out and lay on load ! Let's forge a goodly anchor, a bower, thick and broad ; For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road ; The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea, the main-mast by the board ; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains ; But courage still, brave mariners, the bower yet remains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky- high, Then moves his head, as though he said, " Fear nothing — here am I ! " Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time ; Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime ; But while ye swing your sledges, sing ; and let the burden be, The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we ; Strike in, strike in ; the sparks begin to dull their rustling red ; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped ; Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 281 Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave away, and the sighing seaman's cheer, When weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and home, And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last, A shapely one he is and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. A trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep- green sea ! O deep-sea diver, who might then behold such sights as thou ? The hoary monster's palaces ! methinks what joy 'twere now To go plump, plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails ! Then deep in tangle woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn, And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn, To leave the subtle sworder-fish, of bony blade forlorn, And for the ghastly grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn; To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles He lies a lubber anchorage, for sudden shallowed miles ; Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls, Meanwhile to swing, a buffeting the far astonished shoals Of his back-browsing ocean calves ; or haply in a cove, Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love, To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, hard by icy lands, To wrestle with the sea serpent, upon cerulean sands ! O broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine ? The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line ; And night by night by 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play ; 282 ALCESTIS AND PHERE.S. But, shamer of our little sports, forgive the name I gave ; A fisher's joy is to destroy — thine office is to save. O lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but under- stand Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping bend, Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend, With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient friend ; O, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps around thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride, thou'dst leap with- in the sea ! Give honor to their memories, who left the pleasant strand To shed their blood so freely for the love of Fatherland — Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church yard grave So freely for a restless bed amid the tossing wave — O, thou our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among ! ALCESTIS AND PHERES. Translated By Mrs. Hemans. Alcestis. Weep thou no more. O monarch, dry thy tears, For know, he shall not die ; not now shall Fate Bereave thee of thy son. Pheres. What mean thy words ? Hath then Apollo — is there then a hope ? Alcestis. Yes, hope for thee, hope, by thy voice pro- nounced From the prophetic cave. Nor would I yield To other lips the tidings, meet alone For thee to hear from mine. Pheres. But say, oh ! say, Shall, then, my son be spared ? ALCESTIS AND PHERES. 283 Alcestis. He shall, to thee. Thus hath Apollo said, — Alcestis thus Confirms the oracle ; be thou secure. Pheres. O sounds of joy ! He lives ! Alcestis. But not for this ; Think not that e'en for this the stranger, joy, Shall yet revisit these devoted walls. Pheres. Can there be grief when from his bed of death, Acimetus rises ? What deep mystery lurks Within thy words? What mean'st thou ? Gracious heaven ! Thou, whose deep love is all his own, who nearest The tidings of his safety, and dost bear Transport and life in that glad oracle To his despairing sire ; thy cheek is tinged With death, and on thy pure, ingenuous brow To the brief lightning of a sudden joy Shades dark as night succeed, and thou art wrapt In troubled silence. Speak ! oh ! speak ! Alcestis. The gods Themselves have limitations to their power, Impassable, eternal ; and their will Resists not the tremendous laws of fate : Nor small the boon they grant thee in the life Of thy restored Admetus. Pheres. In thy looks There is expression more than in thy words, Which thrills my shuddering heart. Declare what terms Can render fatal to thyself and us The rescued life of him thy soul adores ? Alcestis. O, father ! could my silence aught avail To keep that fearful secret from thine ear, Still should it rest unheard till all fulfilled Were the dread sacrifice. But vain the wish ; And since too soon, too well, it must be known, Hear it from me. Pheres. Through all my curdling veins Runs a cold, death-like horror ; and I feel I am not all a father. In my heart Strive many deep affections. Thee I love, O fair and high-souled consort of my son ! More than a daughter ; and thine infant race, The cherished hope and glory of my age ; And, unimpaired by time, within my breast 284 ALCESTIS AND PHERES. High, holy, and unalterable love For her, the partner of my cares and joys, Dwells pure and perfect yet. Bethink thee, then, In what suspense, what agony of fear, I wait thy words ; for well, too well, I see Thy lips are fraught with fatal auguries To some one of my race. Alcestis. Death hath his rights, Of which not e'en the great Supernal Powers May hope to rob him. By his ruthless hand, Already seized, the noble victim lay, The heir of empire, in his glowing prime And noon-day struck ; Admetus, the revered, The blessed, the loved, by all who owned his sway, By his illustrious parents, by the realms Surrounding his, — and oh! what need to add, How much by his Alcestis ! Such was he, Already in the unsparing grasp of death, Withering, a certain prey. Apollo thence Hath snatched him, and another in his stead, Although not an equal, — (who can equal him?) — Must fall a voluntary sacrifice Another of his lineage, or to him By closest bonds united, must descend To the dark realm of Orcus in his place, Who thus alone is saved. Pheres. What do I hear? Woe to us, woe ! — what victim ? — who shall be Accepted in his stead ? Alcestis. The dread exchange E'en now, O father ! hath been made ; the prey Is ready, nor is wholly worthless him For whom 'tis freely offered. Nor wilt thou, O mighty goddess of the infernal shades ! Whose image sanctifies this threshold floor, Disdain the victim. Pheres. All prepared the prey ! And to our blood allied ! O heaven ! — and yet Thou bad'st me weep no more ! Alcestis. Yes, thus I said, And thus again I say, — thou shalt not weep Thy son's, nor I deplore my husband's doom. Let him be saved, and other sounds of woe, ALCESTIS AND PHERES. 285 Less deep, less mournful far, shall here be heard, Than those his death had caused. With some few tears, But brief, and mingled with a gleam of joy, E'en while the involuntary tribute lasts, The victim shall be honored, who resigned Life for Admetus. Wouldst thou know the prey, — The vowed, the willing, the devoted one. Offered and hallowed to the infernal gods ? Father ! 'tis I. Pheres. What hast thou done ? O heaven ! What hast thou done ? And think'st thou he is saved By such a compact ? Think'st thou he can live Bereft of thee ? Of thee, his light of life, His very soul ! — Of thee, beloved far more, Than his loved parents, — than his children more, More than himself ! — Oh ! no, it shall not be ! Thou perish, O Alcestis ! in the flower Of thy young beauty ; perish, and destroy Not him, not him alone, but us, but all, Who as a child adore thee ! Desolate Would be the throne, the kingdom, reft of thee. And think'st thou not of those, whose tender years Demand thy care? — thy children ! think of them! O thou, the source of each domestic joy, — Thou in whose life alone Admetus lives, — His glory, his delight, — thou shalt not die, While I can die for thee ! — Me, me alone, The oracle demands, — a withered stem, Whose task, whose duty is for him to die. My race is run ; the fullness of my years, The faded hopes of age, and all the love Which hath its dwelling in a father's heart, x\nd the fond pity, half with wonder blent, Inspired by thee, whose youth with heavenly gifts So richly is endowed, — all, all unite To grave in adamant the just decree, That 1 must die. But thou — I bid thee live ! Pheres commands thee, O Alcestis ! live ! Ne'er, ne'er shall woman's youthful love surpass An aged sire's devotedness. Alcestis. I know Thy lofty soul, thy fond paternal love ; Pheres, I know them well, and not in vain 286 GINEVRA. Strove to anticipate their high resolves. But if in silence I have heard thy words, Now calmly list to mine, and thou shalt own They may not be withstood. Pheres. What canst thou say Which I should hear ? I go, resolved to save Htm who, with thee, would perish : to the shrine E'en now I fly. Alcestis. Stay, stay thee ! 'tis too late. Already hath consenting Proserpine, From the remote abysses of her realms, Heard and accepted the terrific vow ' Which binds me, with indissoluble ties, To death. And I am firm, and well I know None can deprive me of the awful right That vow hath won. Yes ! thou mayst weep my fate, Mourn for me, father ! but thou canst not blame My lofty purpose. Oh ! the more endeared My life by every tie, the more I feel Death's bitterness, the more my sacrifice Is worthy of Admetus. I descend To the dim, shadowy regions of the dead, A guest more honored. In thy presence here Again I utter the tremendous vow, Now more than half fulfilled. I feel, I know Its dread effects. Through all my burning veins The insatiate fever revels. Doubt is o'er. The Monarch of the Dead hath heard ; he calls, He summons me away, and thou art saved, O my Admetus ! GINEVRA. Samuel Rogers. If ever you should come to Modena (Where among other relics you may see Tassoni's bucket — but 'tis not the true one,) Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate, Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, GINEVRA. 287 And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain you — but, before you go, Enter the house, — forget it not, I pray you, And look awhile upon a picture there. 'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious family ; Done by Zampieri — but by whom I care not He, who observes it, ere he passes on, Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, That he may call it up when far away. She sits, inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her ringer up, As though she said, " Beware ! " her vest of gold Broidered with flowers and clasped from head to foot, An emerald stone in every golden clasp ; And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls. But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth. The overflowings of an innocent heart — It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Like some wild melody ! Alone it hangs O/er a moldering heirloom, its companion, An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm, But richly carved by Antony of Trent With Scripture stories from the life of Christ, A chest that came from Venice, and had held The ducal robes of some old ancestors — That by the way — it may be true or false — But don't forget the picture ; and you will not, When you have heard the tale they told me there. She was an only child— her name Ginevra, The joy, the pride, of an indulgent father; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 288 GINEVRA. Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gayety, Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come — the day, the hour ; Now, frowning, smiling for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum And, in the luster of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it to Francesco. Great was the joy ; but at the nuptial feast, When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting, Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried, " 'Tis but to make a trial of our love ! " And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook, And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back, and flying still, Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas ! she was not to be found ; Nor from that hour could anything be guessed But that she was not ! Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking, Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Donati lived — and long might you have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something, Something he could not find — he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remained awhile Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers. Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, When on an idle day, a day of search 'Mid the old lumber in the gallery, That moldering chest was noticed ; and 'twas said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, " Why not remove it from its lurking place?" 'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way It burst — it fell — and lo ! a skeleton, With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone, A golden clasp clasping a shred of gold. All else had' perished — save a wedding-ring, HOME. 289 And a small seal, ber mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, — the name of both, — "Ginevra." — There then had she found a grave ! Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy ; When a spring lock, that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down forever ! HOME. James Montgomery. There is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside : Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons imparadise the night ; A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth ; The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air : In every clime the magnet of his soul, Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole ; For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace, The heritage of nature's noblest race, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and scepter, pageantry and pride, W T hile in his softened looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend ; Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife, Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life ; In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet, "Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ? 290 RICHELIEU S VINDICATION. Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look around ! O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy home ! — Man, through all ages of revolving time, Unchanging man, in every varying clime, Deems his own land of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ; His home the spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. RICHELIEU'S VINDICATION. Edward George Earle Bulwer. Richelieu. Room, my Lords, room ! The minister of France Can need no intercession with the King. [They fall hack. Louis. What means this false report of death, Lord Cardinal ? Richelieu. Are you then angered, sire, that I live still ? Louis. No ; but such artifice — Richelieu. Not mine : — look elsewhere ! Louis — my castle swarmed with the assassins. Bar ad as \_advancing\ We have punished them already. Huguet is now In the Bastile. Oh ! my Lord, we were prompt To avenge you — we were — Richelieu. We ? Ha ! ha ! you hear, My liege ! What page, man, in the last court grammar Made you a plural ? Count, you have seized the hireling: Sire, shall I name the master? Louis. Tush ! my Lord, The old contrivance : — ever does your wit Invent assassins, — that ambition may Slay rivals — Richelieu. Rivals, sire ! in what ? Service to France ? / have none ! Lives the man Whom Europe, paled before your glory, deems Rival to Armand Richelieu ? Louis. What ! so haughty ! Remember he who made can unmake. Richelieu's vindication. 291 Richelieu. Never ! Never ! Your anger can recall your trust, Annul my office, spoil me of my lands, Ritie my coffers, — but my name — my deeds, Are royal in a land beyond your scepter ! Pass sentence on me, if you will ; from Kings, Lo, I appeal to Time ! Be just, my liege— I found your kingdom rent with heresies And bristling with rebellion ; lawless nobles And breadless serfs ; England fomenting discord : Austria — her clutch on your dominion ; Spain Forging the prodigal gold of either Ind To armed thunder-bolts. The Arts lay dead, Trade rotted in your marts, your Armies mutinous, Your Treasury bankrupt. Would you now revoke Your trust, so be it ! and I leave you, sole, Supremest monarch of the mightiest realm. From Ganges to the Icebergs : Look without ; No foe not humbled ! Look within ; the Arts Quit for your schools their old Hesperides — The golden Italy ! while through the veins Or your vast empire flows in strengthening tides, Trade, the calm health of nations ! Sire, I know Your smoother courtiers please you best — nor measure Myself with them, yet sometimes I would doubt If statesmen, rocked and dandled into power, Could leave such legacies to kings ! [Louis appears irresolute. Baradas [passing him, whispers']. But Julie, Shall I not summon her to court. Louis [motions to Baradas, and turns haughtily to the Car- dinal]. Enough ! Your Eminence must excuse a longer audience. To your own palace : For our conference this Nor place —nor season. Richelieu. Good my liege ! for Justice All place a temple, and all season, summer ! Do you deny me justice ? Saints of heaven, He turns from me ! Do you deny me justice ? For fifteen years, while in these hands dwelt empire, The humblest craftsman — the obscurest vassal — The very leper shrinking from the sun, 292 THE RISING OF THE VENDEE. Though loathed by Charity, might ask for justice ! Not with the fawning tone and crawling mien Of some I see around you — Counts and Princes — Kneeling for favors ; but, erect and loud, As men who ask man's rights ! my liege, my Lord, Do you refuse me justice — audience even — In the pale presence of the baffled Murther? Louis. Lord Cardinal — one by one you have severed from me The bonds of human love. All near and dear Marked out for vengeance — exile, or the scaffold. You find me now amidst my trustiest friends, My closest kindred ; you would tear them from me ; They would murder you, forsooth, since me they love. Enough of plots and treasons for one reign ! Home ! Home ! and sleep away these phantoms ! Richelieu. Sire ! I patience, heaven ! sweet heaven ! Sire, from the foot Of that Great Throne, these hands have raised aloft On an Olympus, looking down on mortals And worshiped by their awe — before the foot Of that high throne — spurn you the gray-haired man, Who gave you empire — and now sues for safety ! Louis. No : when we see your Eminence in truth At the foot of the throne — we'll listen to you. THE RISING OF THE VENDEE. George Croly. It was a Sabbath morning, and sweet the summer air, And brightly shone the summer sun upon the day of prayer, And silver sweet the village bells o'er mount and valley tolled, And in the church of St. Florent were gathered young and old— When rushing down the woodland hill, in fiery haste was seen, With panting steed and bloody spur, a noble Angevine ; And bounding on the sacred floor, he gave his fearful cry : - Up ! up for France ! the time is come for France to live or die ! THE RISING OF THE VENDEE. 293 " Your queen is in the dungeon ; your king is in his gore ; O'er Paris waves the flag of death, the fiery Tricolor ; Your nobles in their ancient halls are hunted down and slain ; In convent cells and holy shrines the blood is poured like rain ; The peasant's vine is rooted up, his cottage given to flame ; His son is to the scaffold sent, his daughter sent to shame. With torch in hand and hate in heart, the rebel host is nigh. Up ! up for France ! the time is come for France to live or die ! " That live-long night the horn was heard from Orleans to Anjou, And poured from all their quiet fields our shepherds bold and true. Along the pleasant banks of Loire shot up the beacon-fires, And many a torch was blazing bright on Lucon's stately spires ; The midnight cloud was flushed with flame, that hung o'er Parthenay ; The blaze that shone o'er proud Brissac was like the break- ing day, Till east, and west, and north, and south, the loyal beacons shone, Like shooting stars from haughty Nantes to sea-begirt Olonne. And through the night, on horse and foot, the sleepless summons flew, And morning saw the Lily-flag wide-waving o'er Poitou. And many an ancient musketoon was taken from the wall, And many a jovial hunter's steed was harnessed in the stall, And many a noble's armory gave up the sword and spear, And many a bride, and many a babe, was left with kiss and tear, And many a homely peasant bade farewell to his old dame, As in the days when France's king unfurled the Oriflamme. There, leading his bold marksmen, rode the eagle-eyed Lescure, And dark Stofflet, who flies to fight as an eagle to his lure ; 294 THE RISING OF THE VENDEE. And fearless as the lion roused, but gentle as the lamb, Came marching at his people's head the great and good Bonchamp ; Charette, where honor was the prize, the hero sure to win ; And there, with Henri Quatre's plume, young la Rochejac- quelein ; And there, in peasant garb and speech, — the terror of the foe, — A noble, made by Heaven's own hand, the great Cathe- lineau. We marched by tens of thousands, we marched by day and night, The Lily-standard in our front, like Israel's holy light. Around us rushed the rebels, as the wolf upon the sheep, — We burst upon their columns as a lion roused from sleep ; We tore their bayonets from their hands, we slew them at their guns ; Their boasted horsemen fled like chaff before our forest sons. That night we heaped their baggage high their lines of dead between, And in the center blazed to heaven their blood-dyed guillotine ! In vain they hid their heads in walls ; we rushed on stout Thouar ; What cared we for shot or shell, for battlement or bar? We burst its gates ; then like a wind we rushed on Fon- tenay ; We saw its flag with morning light — 'twas ours by setting day; We crushed like ripened grapes Montreuil, we bore down old Vihiers ; We charged them with our naked breasts, and took them with a cheer. We'll hunt the robbers through the land, from Seine to sparkling Rhone ; Now, " Here's a health to all we love, our king shall have his own." SECOND INAUGURAL ADDRESS. 295 ADDRESS AT GETTYSBURG. Abraham Lincoln. Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation — or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated — can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We are met to dedicate a portion of it as the final resting-place of those who have given their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot con- secrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our power to add or to detract. The world will very little note, nor long remember, what we say here ; but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated, here, to the unfinished work that they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task re- maining before us ; that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they here gave the last full measure of devotion ; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain ; that the nation shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the eople, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. SECOND INAUGURAL ADDRESS. Abraham Lincoln. Fellow-Countrymen : At this second appearing to take the oath of the Presidential office, there is less occasion for an extended address than there was at the first. Then a statement somewhat in detail of a course to be pursued seemed very fitting and proper. Now, at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations have constant- ly been called forth on every point and phase of the great 296 SECOND INAUGURAL ADDRESS. contest which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. The progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly de- pends, is as well known to the public as to myself, and it is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. With high hope for the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured. On the occasion corresponding to this four years ago, all thoughts were anxiously directed to an im- pending civil war. All dreaded it, all sought to avoid it. While the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without war, insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it without war, seeking to dissolve the Union and divide the effects by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war ; but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish ; and the war came. One-eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally over the Union, but located in the southern part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew that this interest was somehow the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and ex- tend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the Union by war, while government claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial- enlargement of it. Neither party expected the magnitude or the dur- ation which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease even before the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible, and pray to the same God, and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any man should dare to ask a just God's assistance in wringing his bread from the sweat of other men's faces. But let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayer of both should not be answered. That of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has his own purposes. " Woe unto the world because of offenses, for it must needs be that offenses come ; but woe to that man by whom the offense cometh." If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of these offenses, which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through his WASHINGTON AND LINCOLN COMPARED. 297 appointed time, he now wills to remove, and that he gives to both North and South this terrible war as the woe due to those by whom the offense came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to him ? Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge, of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said that the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether. With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firm- ness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wound, to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and his orphans, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and a lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations. WASHINGTON AND LINCOLN COMPARED. Charles Sumner. In the universe of God there are no accidents. From the fall of a sparrow to the fall of an empire, or the sweep of a planet, all is according to divine Providence, whose laws are everlasting. It was no accident which gave to his country the patriot whom we now honor. It was no accident which snatched this patriot, so suddenly and so cruelly, from his sublime duties. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away ; blessed be the name of the Lord. Perhaps never in history has this providence been more conspicuous than in that recent procession of events where the final triumph was wrapped in the gloom of tragedy. It will be our duty to catch the moral of this stupendous drama. For the second time in our annals the country has been summoned by the President to unite', on an appointed day, in commemorating the life and character of the dead. The first was on the death of George Washington, when, as now, 298 WASHINGTON AND LINCOLN COMPARED. a day was set apart for simultaneous eulogy throughout the land ; and cities, towns, and villages all vied in tribute. More than half a century has passed since this early ob- servance in memory of the Father of his Country, and now it is repeated in memory of Abraham Lincoln. Thus are Washington and Lincoln associated in the grandeur of their obsequies. But this association is not accidental. It is from the nature of the case, and because the part which Lincoln was called to perform resembled in character the part which was performed by Washington. The work left undone by Washington was continued by Lincoln. Kindred in service, kindred in patriotism, each was naturally surrounded at death by kindred homage. One sleeps in the East, and the other sleeps in the West ; and thus, in death, as in life, one is the complement of the other. Each was at the head of the republic during a period of surpassing trial ; and each thought only of the public good, simply, purely, constantly, so that single-hearted devotion to country will always find a synonym in their names. Each was the national chief during a time of successful war. Each was the representative of his country at a great epoch of history. Unlike in origin, conversation, and character, they were unlike, also, in the ideas which they served, except so far as each was the servant of his country. The war conducted by Washington was unlike the war conducted by Lincoln — as the peace which crowned the arms of the one was unlike the peace which began to smile upon the other. The two wars did not differ in the scale of operations, and in the' tramp of mustered hosts, more than in the ideas involved. The first was for national independence ; the second was to make the republic one and indivisible, on the indestructible foundations of liberty and equality, in the relation of cause and effect the first was the natural precursor and herald of the second. By the sword of Washington inde- pendence was secured ; but the unity of the republic and the principles of the Declaration were left exposed to ques- tion. From that day to this, through various chances, they have been questioned, and openly assailed — until at last the republic was constrained to take up arms in their defense. Such are these two great wars in which these two chiefs WASHINGTON AND LINCOLN COMPARED. 299 bore such part. Washington fought for national indepen- dence, and triumphed, — making his country an example to mankind. Lincoln drew a reluctant sword to save those great ideas, essential to the life and character of the republic, which unhappily the sword of Washington had failed to put beyond the reach of assault. It was by no accident that these two great men became the representatives of their country at these two different epochs, so alike in peril, and yet so unlike in the principles involved. Washington was the natural representative of national independence. He might also have represented national unity had this principle been challenged to bloody battle during his life ; for nothing was nearer his heart than the' consolidation of our Union, which, in his letter to Congress transmitting the Constitution, he declared to be " the greatest interest of every true American." But another person was needed, of different birth and simpler life, to represent the ideas which in our day have been as- sailed. Washington, always strictly just, according to prevailing principles, and ordering at his death the emancipation of his slaves, was a general and a statesman rather than a philanthropist. His origin — his early life — his oppor- tunities — his condition — his character, were all in contrast with the origin, the early life, the opportunities, the condi- tion, and the character of him whom we commemorate to- day. Mourn not the dead, but rejoice in his life and example. Rejoice as you point to this child of the people, who was lifted so high that republican institutions became manifest in him ! Rejoice that through him Emancipation was pro- claimed ! Above all, see to it that his constant vows are fulfilled, and that the promises of the Fathers are main- tained, so that no person in the upright form of man can be shut out from their protection. Then will the unity of the republic be fixed on a foundation that cannot fail, and other nations will enjoy its security. The corner-stone of National Independence is already in its place, and on it is inscribed the name of George Washington. There is another stone which must have its place at the corner also. This is the Declaration of Independence with all its promises fulfilled. On this stone we will gratefully inscribe the name of Abraham Lincoln. 300 ADDRESS TO THE HEAVENLY BODIES. OVERTHROW OF BELSHAZZAR. Barry Cornwall. Belshazzar is king ! Belshazzar is lord ? And a thousand dark nobles all bend at his board ; Fruits glisten, flowers blossom, meats steam, and a flood Of the wine that man loveth, runs redder than blood : Wild dancers are there, and a riot of mirth, And the beauty that maddens the passions of earth ; And the crowds all shout, Till the vast roofs ring, — " All praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king ! " " Bring forth," cries the monarch, " the vessels of gold, Which my father tore down from the temples of old : Bring forth ; and we'll drink, while the trumpets are blown, To the gods of bright silver, of gold, and of stone : Bring forth ! " — and before him the vessels all shine, And he bows unto Baal, and he drinks the dark wine ; While the trumpets bray, And the cymbals ring, — " Praise, praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king ! Now, what cometh ? — look, look ! — Without menace, or call, Who writes, with the lightning's bright hand, on the wall ? What pierceth the king, like the point of a dart ? W T hat drives the bold blood from his cheek to his heart ? " Chaldeans ! magicians ! the letters expound ! " They are read, — and Belshazzar is dead on the ground ! Hark ! — the Persian is come, On a conqueror's wing ; And a Mede's on the throne of Belshazzar the king ! - ADDRESS TO THE HEAVENLY BODIES. Henry Ware, Jr. Tell me, ye splendid orbs ! as from your throne Ye mark the rolling provinces that own Your sway, what beings fill those bright abodes ? How formed, how gifted ? what their powers, their state, OUR ONE LIFE. 301 Their happiness, their wisdom ? Do they bear The stamp of human nature ? Or has God Peopled those purer realms with lovelier forms And more celestial minds ? Does Innocence Still wear her native and untainted bloom? Has War trod o'er them with his foot of fire ? And Slavery forged his chains; and Wrath, and Hate, And sordid Selfishness, and cruel Lust Leagued their base bands to tread out light and truth, And scatter woe where Heaven had planted joy ? Or are they yet all paradise, unfallen And uncorrupt ? existence one long joy, Without disease upon the frame, or sin Upon the heart, or weariness of life ; Hope never quenched, and age unknown, And death unfeared ; while fresh and fadeless youth Glows in the light from God's near throne of love ? Speak, speak ! the mysteries of those living worlds Unfold ! No language? Everlasting light And everlasting silence? Yet the eye May read and understand. The hand of God Has written legibly what man may know — The glory of the Maker. There it shines. OUR ONE LIFE. Horatius Bonar. 'Tis not for man to trifle ! Life is brief, And sin is here. Our age is but the falling of a leaf, A dropping tear. We have no time to sport away the hours, All must be earnest in a world like ours. Not many lives, but only one have we, — One, only one ; How sacred should that one life ever be — ■ That narrow span ! 302 HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. Day after day filled up with blessed toil, Hour after hour still bringing in new spoil. Our being is no shadow of thin air, No vacant dream, No fable of the things that never were But only seem. ,r Fis full of meaning as of mystery, Though strange and solemn may that meaning be. Our sorrows are no phantom of the night, No idle tale : No cloud that floats along a sky of light, On summer gale. They are the true realities of earth, Friends and companions even from our birth. O life below — how brief, and poor, and sad ! One heavy sigh. O life above — how long, how fair, and glad, — An endless joy. Oh, to be done with daily dying here ; Oh, to begin the living in yon sphere ! O day of time, how dark ! O sky and earth, How dull your hue ; O day of Christ — how bright ! O sky and earth, Made fair and new ! Come, better Eden, with thy fresher green ; Come, brighter Salem, gladden all the -scene ! HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. N.P.Willis. The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds With a strange beauty. Earth received again Its garment of a thousand dyes ; and leaves, And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, And everything that bendeth to the dew, And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 303 All things are dark to sorrow ; and the light And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth Was pouring odors from its spicy pores, And the young birds were singing as if life Were a new thing to them ; but music came Upon her ear like discord, and she felt, That pang of the unreasonable heart, That, bleeding amid things it loved so well, Would have some sign of sadness as they pass. She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were pressed Till the blood started ; and the wandering veins Of her transparent forehead were swelled out, As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven, Which made its language legible, shot back, From her long lashes, as it had been flame. Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand Clasped in her own, and his round, delicate feet, Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor Sandaled for journeying. He had looked up Into his mother's face, until he caught The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling Beneath his dimpled bosom, and his form Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath, As if his light proportions would have swelled, Had they but matched his spirit, to the man. Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now Upon his staff so wearily ? His beard Is low upon his breast, and high his brow, So written with the converse of his God, Beareth the swollen vein of agony. His lip is quivering, and his wonted step Of vigor is not there ; and, though the morn Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes Its freshness as if it were a pestilence. He gave to her the water and the bread, But spoke no word, and trusted not himself To look upon her face, but laid his hand, In silent blessing, on the fair-haired boy, And left her to her lot of loneliness. 304 HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. Should Hagar weep ? May slighted woman turn, And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, Bend Hghtly to her leaning trust again? O, no ! by all her loveliness — by all That makes life poetry and beauty, no ! Make her a slave ; steal from her rosy cheek By needless jealousies ; let the last star Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all That makes her Cup a bitterness— yet give One evidence of love, and earth has not An emblem of devotedness like hers. But, oh ! estrange her once — it boots not how — By wrong or silence — anything that tells A change has come upon your tenderness, — And there is not a feeling out of heaven Her pride o'ermastereth not. She went her way with a strong step and slow — Her pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed, As if it were a diamond, and her form Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through. Her child kept on in silence, though she pressed His hand till it was pained ; for he had read The dark look of his mother, and the seed Of a stern nation had been breathed upon. The morning passed, and Asia's sun rode up In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat. The cattle of the hills were in the shade, And the bright plumage of the Orient lay On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. It was an hour of rest ! but Hagar found No shelter in the wilderness, and on She kept her weary way, until the boy Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips For water ; but she could not give it him. She laid him down beneath the sultry sky, — For it was better than the close hot breath Of the thick pines, — and tried to comfort him ; But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes Were dim and blood-shot, and he could not know Why God denied him water in the wild. HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 305 She sat a little longer, and he grew Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died. It was too much for her. She lifted him. And bore him further on, and laid his head Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub ; And, shrouding up her face, she went away, And sat to watch, where he could see her not, Till he should die ; and, watching him, she mourned : " God stay thee in thine agony, my boy ! I cannot see thee die ; I cannot brook Upon thy brow to look, And see death settle on my cradle joy. How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye ! And could I see thee die ? " I did not dream of this when thou wast straying, Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers ; Or wiling the soft hours, By the rich gush of water-sources playing, Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, So beautiful and deep. "Oh, no ! and when I watched by thee the while, And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream, And thought of the dark stream In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile, How prayed 1 that my father's land might be An heritage for thee ! "And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee ! And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press, And, oh ! my last caress Must feel thee cold ; for a chill hand is on thee. How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there Upon his clustering hair ! " She stood beside the well her God had given To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed The forehead of her child until he laughed In his reviving happiness, and lisped His infant thought of gladness at the sight Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand. 306 LINES ON A SKELETON. LINES ON A SKELETON. Anonymous. Behold this ruin ! 'Twas a skull Once of ethereal spirit full. This narrow cell was Life's retreat, This space was Thought's mysterious seat. What beauteous visions filled this spot ! What dreams of pleasure long forgot ! Nor Hope, nor Joy, nor Love, nor Fear, Have left one trace of record here. Beneath this moldering canopy, Once shone the bright and busy eye ; But start not at the dismal void — If social love that eye employed, If with no lawless fire it gleamed, But through the dews of kindness beamed, That eye shall be forever bright When stars and sun are sunk in night. Within this hollow cavern hung The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue. If falsehood's honey it disdained, And when it could not praise, was chained, If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke, Yet gentle concord never broke ! This silent tongue shall plead for thee When time unveils Eternity. Say, did these fingers delve the mine ? Or with the envied rubies shine ? To hew the rock or wear the gem, Can little now avail to them. But if the page of truth they sought, Or comfort to the mourner brought, These hands a richer meed shall claim Than all that wait on Wealth or Fame. Avails it, whether bare or shod, These feet the paths of duty trod ? DAYS THAT ARE GONE. 307 If from the bowers of Ease they fled, To seek Affliction's humble shed ; If Grandeur's guilty bride they spurned, And home to Virtue's cot returned, These feet with angels' wings shall vie, And tread the palace of the sky. DAYS THAT ARE GONE. Charles Mackay. Who is it that mourns for the days that are gone, When a noble could do as he liked with his own ! When his serfs, with their burdens well filled on their backs, Never dared to complain of the weight of a tax ? When his word was a statue, his nod was a law, And for aught but his " order " he cared not a straw ? When each had his dungeon and rack for the poor, And a gibbet to hang a refractory boor ? They were days when a man with a thought in his pate Was a man that was born for the popular hate ; And if 'twere a thought that was good for his kind, The man was too vile to be left u neon fined ; The days when obedience, in right or in wrong, Was always the sermon and always the song ; When the people, like cattle, were pounded or driven, And to scourge them was thought a king's license from heaven. They were days when the sword settled questions of right, And Falsehood was first to monopolize Might ; When the fighter of battles was always adored, And the greater the tyrant, the greater the lord ; When the king, who by myriads could number his slain, Was considered by far the most worthy to reign ; When the fate of the multitude hung on his breath — A god in his life, and a saint in his death. They were days when the headsman was always prepared — The block ever ready — the ax ever bared ; When a corpse on the gibbet aye swung to and fro, 308 THE DROWNED MARINER. And the fire at the stake never smoldered too low ; When famine and age made a woman a witch, To be roasted alive, or be drowned in a ditch ; When difference of creed was the vilest of crime, And martyrs were burned half a score at a time. They were days when the gallows stood black in the way, The larger the town, the more plentiful they ; When Law never dreamed it was good to relent, Or thought it less wisdom to kill than prevent ; When Justice herself, taking Law for her guide, Was never appeased till a victim had died ; And the stealer of sheep, and the slayer of men, Were strung up together — again and again. They were days when the crowd had no freedom of speech, And reading and writing were out of its reach ; When ignorance, stolid and dense, was its doom, And bigotry swathed it from cradle to tomb ; But the Present, though clouds o'er her countenance roll, Has a light in her eyes, and a hope in her soul. And we are too wise, like the bigots, to mourn For the darkness of days that shall never return. THE DROWNED MARINER. Elizabeth Oakes Smith. A mariner sat in the shrouds one night, The wind was piping free ; Now bright, now dimmed was the moonlight pale, And the phosphor gleamed in the wake of the whale, As it floundered in the sea ; The scud was flying athwart the sky, The gathering winds went whistling by, And the wave, as it towered then fell in spray, Looked an emerald wall in the moonlit ray. The mariner swayed and rocked on the mast, But the tumult pleased him well : Down the yawning wave his eye he cast, And the monsters watched, as they hurried past, Or lightly rose and fell, — THE DROWNED MARINER. 309 For their broad, damp fins were under the tide, And they lashed, as they passed the vessel's side, And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim, Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him. Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship goes Like an uncurbed steed along ; A sheet of flame is the spray she throws, As her gallant prow the water plows ; But the ship is fleet and strong ; The topsails are reefed, and the sails are furled, And onward she sweeps o'er the watery world, And dippeth her spars in the surging flood ; But there cometh no chill to the mariner's blood. Wildly she rocks, but he swingeth at ease, And holds him by the shroud ; And as she careens to the crowding breeze, The gaping deep the mariner sees, And the surging heareth loud. Was that a face, looking up at him With its pallid cheek, and its cold eyes dim? Did it beckon him down ? Did it call his name? Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came. The mariner looked, and he saw, with dread. A face he knew too well : And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead, And its long hair out on the waves was spread — Was there a tale to tell ? The stout ship rocked with a reeling speed, And the mariner groaned, as well he need — For ever down, as she plunged on her side, The dead face gleamed from the briny tide. Bethink thee, mariner, well of the past : A voice calls loud for thee ; There's a stifled prayer, the first, the last ; The plunging ship on her beam is cast — Oh, where shall thy burial be ? Bethink thee of oaths, that were lightly spoken, Bethink thee of vows, that were lightly broken ; Bethink thee of all that is clear to thee, For thou art alone on the raging sea. 310 HALLOWED GROUND. Alone in the dark, alone on the wave To buffet the storm alone ; To struggle aghast at thy watery grave, To struggle and feel there if none to save ! God shield thee, helpless one ! The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past ; The trembling hands on the deep are cast ; The white brow gleams a moment more, Then slowly sinks — the struggle is o'er. Down, down, where the storm is hushed to sleep, Where the sea its dirge shall swell ; Where the amber-drops for thee shall weep, And the rose-lipped shell its music keep ; There thou shalt slumber well. The gem and the pearl lie heaped at thy side ; They feli from the neck of the beautiful bride, From the strong man's hand, from the maiden's brow, As they slowly sunk to the wave below. A peopled home is the ocean-bed ; The mother and child are there ; The fervent youth and the hoary head, The maid with her floating locks outspread, The babe with its silken hair : As the water moveth they slightly sway, And the tranquil lights on their features play : And there is each cherished and beautiful form, Away from decay, and away from the storm. HALLOWED GROUND. Thomas Campbell. What's hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod Its Maker meant not should be trod By man, the image of his God, Erect and free. Unscourged by Superstition's rod To bow the knee ? HALLOWED GROUND. 311 Is't death to fall for Freedom's right ? He's dead alone that lacks her light ! And murder sullies in Heaven's sight The sword he draws : What can alone ennoble fight ? A noble cause ! Give that ! and welcome War to brace Her drums ! and rend Heaven's reeking space ! The colors planted face to face, The charging cheer, Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, Shall still be dear. And place our trophies where men kneel To Heaven ! but Heaven rebukes my zeal. O God above ! The cause of Truth and human weal, Transfer it from the sword's appeal To Peace and Love. Peace, Love ! the cherubim that join Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine, Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, Where they are not — The heart alone can make divine Religion's spot. To incantations dost thou trust, And pompous rites in domes august ? See moldering stones and metal's rust Belie the vaunt That men can bless one pile of dust With chime or chant. The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! Thy temples — creeds themselves grow wan ! But there's a dome of nobler span, A temple given Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — Its space is Heaven ! 312 NOTHING BUT LEAVES. Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling, Where, trancing the rapt spirit's feeling, And God himself to man revealing, The harmonious spheres Make music, though unheard their pealing By mortal ears. Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? Can sin, can death, your words obscure ? Else why so swell the thoughts at your Aspect above ? Ye must be Heavens that make us sure Of heavenly love ! And in your harmony sublime I read the doom of distant time ; That man's regenerate soul from crime Shall yet be drawn, And reason on his mortal clime Immortal dawn. What's hallowed ground ? 'Tis what gives birth To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth Earth's compass round ; And your high priesthood shall make earth All hallowed ground ! NOTHING BUT LEAVES. Nothing but leaves ; the spirit grieves Over a wasted life ; Sin committed while conscience slept, Promises made but never kept, Hatred, battle, and strife ; Nothing but leaves ! Nothing but leaves ; no garnered sheaves Of life's fair, ripened grain ; Words, idle words, for earnest deeds ; We sow our seeds — lo ! tares and weeds ; We reap with toil and pain Nothing but leaves ! MORAL GLORIES. 313 Nothing but leaves ; memory weaves No veil to screen the past : As we retrace our weary way, Counting each lost and misspent day — We find, sadly, at last, Nothing but leaves ! And shall we meet the Master so, Bearing our withered leaves ? The Saviour looks for perfect fruit, — We stand before him, humbled, mute ; Waiting the words he breathes, — " Nothing but leaves ? " MORAL GLORIES. Horace Mann. A higher and holier world than the world of Ideas, or the world of Beauty, lies around us ; and we find ourselves indued with susceptibilities which affiliate us to all its purity and its perfectness. The laws of nature are sublime, but there is a moral sublimity before which the highest intelli- gences must kneel and adore. The laws by which the winds blow, and the tides of the ocean, like a vast clepsydra, measure, with inimitable exact- ness, the hours of ever-flowing time ; the laws by which the planets roll, and the sun vivifies and paints ; the laws which preside over the subtle combinations of chemistry, and the amazing velocities of electricity ; the laws of germination and production in the vegetable and animal worlds, — all these, radiant with eternal beauty as they are, and exalted above all the objects of sense, still wane and pale before the Moral Glories that apparel the universe in their celes- tial light. The heart can put on charms which no beauty of known things, nor imagination of the unknown, can aspire to em- ulate. Virtue shines in native colors, purer and brighter than pearl, or diamond, or prism can reflect. Arabian gar- dens in their bloom can exhale no such sweetness as charity diffuses. Beneficence is godlike, and he w 7 ho does most 314 CICERO AGAINST MARK ANTONY. good to his fellow-man is the Master of Masters, and has learned the Arts of Arts. Enrich and embellish the universe as you will, it is only a fit temple for the heart that loves truth with a supreme love. Inanimate vastness excites wonder; knowledge kindles admiration ; but love enraptures the soul. Scientific truth is marvelous, but moral truth is divine ; and whoever breathes its air, and walks by its light, has found the lost paradise. For him a new heaven and a new earth have already been created. His home is the sanctuary of God, the Holy of Holies. CICERO AGAINST MARK ANTONY. Translated by Lord Brougham. This one day — this blessed individual day — I say, this very point of time in which I am speaking — defend it, if you can ! Why is the Forum hedged in with armed troops? Why stand your satellites listening to me sword in hand ? Why are the gates of the Temple of Peace not flung open ? Why have you marched into the town, men of all nations, — but chiefly barbarous nations, — savages from Itursea, armed thus with slings ? You pretend that it is all to protect your person. Is it not better far to die a thousand deaths, than be unable to live in one's own country without guards of armed men ? But trust me, there is no safety in defenses like these. We must be fenced round by the affections and the good will of our countrymen, not by their arms, if we would be secure. Look back, then, Mark Antony, on that day when you abolished the Dictatorship ; set before your eyes the delight of the Senate and People of Rome ; contrast it with the traffic you and your followers are now engaged in — then you will be sensible of the vast difference between glory and gain. Yet, as some stricken with a morbid affection, an obtuseness of the senses, are unable to taste the flavor of their food, so profligate, rapacious, desperate men, lose the relish of true fame. But, if the glory of great actions has no charms for you, cannot even fear deter you from wicked deeds ? You have no apprehension of criminal prosecutions — be it so ; if this CICERO AGAINST MARK ANTONY. 315 arises from conscious innocence, I commend it ; but, if it proceeds from your reliance upon mere force, do you not perceive what it is that awaits him who has thus overcome the terrors of the law ? But, if you have no dread of brave men and patriotic citizens, because your person is protected from them by your satellites, believe me, your own partisans will not bear with you much longer ; and what kind of life is his whose days and nights are distracted with the fear of his own followers ? Unless, indeed, you have bound them to you by greater obligations than those by which Caesar had attached some of the very men who put him to death ; or that you can, in any one respect, be compared to him. In him there was genius, judgment, memory, learning, cir- cumspection, reflection, application. His exploits in war, how mischievous soever to his country, were yet trans- cendent. Bent for years upon obtaining supreme power, he had accomplished his object with vast labor, through count- less perils. By his munificence, by public works, by largesses*, by hospitality, he had won over the thoughtless multitude ; he had attached his followers by his generosity, his adver- saries by his specious clemency. In a word, he had in- troduced into a free state partly through fear of him, partly through tolerance of him, a familiarity with slavery. With that great man I may compare you as regards the lust of power : in no other thing can you be, in any manner or way, likened to him. But out of a thousand ills which he forced into the constitution of our commonwealth, this one good has come, that the Roman people have now learned how far each person is to be trusted, to whom they may commit themselves, against whom they must be on their guard. Do these things never pass through your mind ? Do you not comprehend that it suffices for brave men to have learned how beautiful the deed, how precious the service, how glorious the fame of extirpating a tyrant ? When mankind could not endure Caesar will they hear thee ? Henceforward, trust me, they will flock emulously to this work, nor wait for the lingering opportunity. Regard the commonwealth for a moment, Mark Antony, I do beseech you. Think of the race you are sprung from, not the generation you live with. Be on what terms you please with me ; but return into favor with your country. That, however, is your own affair — I will declare my course. 316 RICHARD OF GLOSTER. Young, I stood by the country — old, I will not desert her. I defied the arms of Catiline — I will not tremble at yours ! Nay, I should cheerfully fling myself into the gulf, if my death would restore the public freedom, and the sufferings of the Roman people could thus be exasperated at once to the crisis which has been so long coming on ! For truly, if it is well nigh twenty years since I denied, in this very temple, that death ever could come before its time to a man of consular rank, how much more truly may I say so now, in my old age ? To me, Senators, death is even desirable, having lived to finish all I have undertaken to achieve. For two things only I feel anxious ; the one, that my eyes may close upon the liberties of Rome — a greater boon than this Heaven has not to bestow ; the other, that that fate may befall every one, which his con- duct to his country has earned. RICHARD OF GLOSTER. John Q. Saxe. Perhaps, my dear boy, you may never have heard Of that wicked old monarch, King Richard the Third,- Whose actions were often extremely absurd ; And who led such a sad life, Such a wanton and mad life ; Indeed, I may say, such a wretchedly bad life, I suppose I am perfectly safe in declaring, There was ne'er such a monster of infamous daring ; In all sorts of crime he was wholly unsparing ; In pride and ambition was quite beyond bearing, And had a bad habit of cursing and swearing. And yet Richard's tongue was remarkably smooth. Could utter a lie quite as easy as truth (Another bad habit he got in his youth ); And had, on occasion, a powerful battery Of plausible phrases and eloquent flattery, Which gave him, my boy, in that barbarous day (Things are different now, I am happy to say), Over feminine hearts a most perilous sway. RICHARD OF GLOSTER. 317 He murdered their brothers, And fathers and mothers, And, worse than all that, he slaughtered by dozens His own royal uncles and nephews and cousins ; And then, in the cunningest sort of orations, In smooth conversations, And flattering ovations, Made love to their principal female relations ! 'Twas very improper, my boy, you must know, For the son of a king to behave himself so ; And you'll scarcely believe what the chronicles show Of his wonderful wooings And infamous doings ; But here's an exploit that he certainly did do — Killed his own cousin Ned, As he slept in his bed, And married next day the disconsolate widow ! I don't understand how such ogres arise, But beginning, perhaps, with things little in size, Such as torturing beetles and blue-bottle flies, Or scattering snuff in a poodle-dog's eyes, — King Richard had grown so wantonly cruel, He minded a murder no more than a duel ; He'd indulge, on the slightest pretense or occasion, In his favorite amusement of decapitation, Until "Off with his head!" It is credibly said, From his majesty's mouth came as easy and pat — As from an old constable, " Off with his hat ! " And now King Richard has gone to bed ; But e'en in his sleep He cannot keep The past or the future out of his head. In his deep remorse, Each mangled corse, Of all he had slain, — or what was worse, Their ghosts, — came up in terrible force, And greeted his ear with unpleasant discourse, Until, with a scream He woke from his dream, And shouted aloud for " another horse !" 318 THE MOONS MILD RAY. But see ! the murky Night is gone ! The Morn is up, and the Fight is on ! The Knights are engaging, the warfare is waging ; On the right — on the left — the battle is raging ; King Richard is down ! Will he save his crown ? There's a crack in it now ! — he's beginning to bleed ! Aha ! King Richard has lost his steed ! (At a moment like this 'tis a terrible need !) He shouts aloud with thundering force, And offers a very high price for a horse. But it's all in vain — the battle is done — ■ The day is lost ! — and the day is won ! — And Richmond is King ! and Richard's a corse ! ON HIS OWN BLINDNESS. John Milton. When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He, returning, chide ; " Doth God exact day labor, light denied ?" I fondly ask ; but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, — "God doth not need Either man's work, or His own gifts ; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best ; His state Is kingly ; thousands at His bidding speed, And post e'er land and ocean without rest ; They, also, serve who only stand and wait." THE MOON'S MILD RAY. John H. Bryant. There is a magic in the moon's mild ray, — What time she softly climbs the evening sky, And sitteth with the silent stars on high, — That charms the pang of earth-born grief away. ON BEAUTY. 319 I raise my eye to the blue depths above, And worship Him whose power, pervading space, Holds those bright orbs at peace in His embrace, Yet comprehends earth's lowliest things in love. Oft, when that silent moon was sailing high, I've left my youthful sports to gaze, and now, When time with graver lines has marked my brow, Sweetly she shines upon my sobered eye. O, may the light of truth, my steps to guide, Shine on my eve of life— shine soft, and long abide. ON SHAKESPEARE. Hartley Coleridge. The soul of man is larger than the sky, Deeper than ocean — or the abysmal dark Of the unfathomed center. Like that ark, Which, in its sacred hold, uplifted high, O'er the drowned hills, the human family, And stock reserved of every living kind, So, in the compass of the single mind, The seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie, That make all worlds. Great poet, 'twas thy art To know thyself, and in thyself to be What'er Love, Hate, Ambition, Destiny, Or the firm, fatal purpose of the heart Can make of man. Yet thou wert still the same, Serene of thought, unhurt by thy own flame. ON BEAUTY. Shakespeare. O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odor which doth in it live. The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye, 320 DWELLINGS OF THE DEAD. As the perfumed tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwooed and unrespected fade ; Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so ; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made ; And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth. DWELLINGS OF THE DEAD. A sweet and soothing influence breathes around The dwellings of the dead. Here on this spot, Where countless generations sleep forgot, Up from the marble tomb and grassy mound There cometh on my ear a peaceful sound, That bids me be contented with my lot, And suffer calmly. O ! when passions hot, When rage or envy doth my bosom wound ; Or wild designs —a fair deceiving train — Wreathed in their flowery fetters me enslave, Or keen misfortune's arrowy tempests roll Full on my naked head, — O, then, again May these still, peaceful accents of the grave Arise like slumbering music on my soul ! LbA P 30 ■