Chapter IV: The Surrender

Just Spirit! from the empyrean heights, regard this lower clime!
From anthems of eternity, from angel theme sublime

Look down upon those woe-worn lives, replete of misery!
Stretch forth Thine arm to stem the tide of mortal agony!
The groaning years have waited long to hail the reign of peace,
Omnipotence give forth Thy word, bid war and tumult cease!
Then harmony shall tune its chords; for plaintive, low-voiced song
Rejoicings of a ransomed world shall seraph notes prolong.

Since passion waged the bloody deed that slew by Eden's gate,
The earth hath borne its bitter fruit of envy's cruel hate;
Even God in man is crushed beneath insatiate thirst of gain,
A thirst unquenched though streams of blood have purpled earth and main.
Oh rarely beauteous, blooming world! why should the true and brave,
Whilst meaner souls usurp thy joys, claim but in thee a grave!
Thou, Oh Supreme! Whose glory lit confusion's dreary night,
Out cast the chaos of the years, inflood Thy glorious light!

Power Benign! Thy influence shed, the brutal passions tame!
Let pure and holy altar light, from clear cerulean flame,

Beam into dark and vile recess of evil's inmost heart!
Incite the nobler sentiments to act the nobler part!
Then war no more shall devastate the work of toilsome hand,
Nor wailing tones of hunger-pain sigh o'er a fruitful land;
Into Oblivion's direst shades shall wrong and woe be hurled,
And cycles of millennial bliss illume a sinless world.

Dragged up were the ponderous guns, dragged up the slippery hill;--
What task too hard for British hands when backed by British will?
Impelled o'er war-worn field of death, of visage stained and scarred,
Till set against the citadel, a grim, relentless guard.
Out echoes through the silent streets the cannon's dolesome boom,
The famine-struck are fain to feel sure bodings of their doom;--
Four lingering days of torture, when exhausted nature calls
To sheathe the patriot sword and leave the long-loved native halls.

Full tenderly the mellow light of Autumn's tranquil hours
In splendor decked the forest shades and gilt the wayside flowers,
Rose-tinted all the fleecy clouds which flecked the arc of blue,
Reflecting on the sullen wave a brighter, warmer hue.

Yet, in its placid majesty, from out that sky serene,
That Autumn sun looked down upon a sad and bitter scene;
Starvation's wan and wasted cheek, the crushed soul of the brave,
The tomb of those who nobly earned a patriot-soldier's grave.

Lay down thine arms, Oh, hero-heart! thou shamest not thy crest;
They own no coward vassalage who bow at Heaven's behest;
Though from the river and the tree there vanisheth for aye
The ensign which so proudly bore the brunt of many a fray,
Yet honor bideth with thee still, and though thy _fleur-de-lis_
Is grafted in the English rose, thou bend'st a faithful knee
At thy faith's shrine; thy language lives, nor shall thy glory fade
While snows o'ermantle mountain steep, or zephyrs fan the glade.

Thou, Conqueror! whose ancient flag floats out on every breeze,
Whose power is felt, whose might is owned by nigh and further seas;
To thee is given a wider scope within this sphere of change,
To work out mightier designs upon a vaster range,
Thwart not thy royal prestige, hold not thy royal hand,

But open wider, still more wide, this haven for every land;
This boundless, fair, Canadian land--land of especial grace,
Where freedom yieldeth equal rights to every creed and race.

Still, peerless Queen of peerless land! in nature's choicest zone
Thou sitt'st in regal dignity upon thy rocky throne;
The glorious memories of the past thy future glories greet,
And fadeless laurels wreathe thy brow, as ocean laves thy feet.
Fair home of faithful, loyal hearts! shrine of the mighty dead!
Whose valor rested not till hid within its gory bed;
Right royal sitt'st thou on thy heights, with Empire's flag unfurled,
The brightest gem by sea or plain of all this Western World.

PERSONAL.

OUR QUEEN.

MAY 24TH.

Loved Queen of Scotia's bonnie braes!
Of Erin's, England's homes;
This day thy people speak thy praise
Where'er the exile roams.

By gorgeous India's ancient fanes;
On Greenland's banks of snow;
Where, o'er Columbia's boundless plains,
Majestic rivers flow.

On frozen seas, in balmy air,
By forest's dusky green
Ariseth up to heaven the prayer:--
"God bless our gracious Queen!"

God guide her through the evening light
To where no shadows frown;
Nor sorrow's pall, nor darksome night
Will dim _that_ lustrous crown.

Let earthly glory sink in night;
Life's record, without stain,
Shall cast an ever-hallowed light
Across Victoria's reign.

'Tis not that Britain's martial prow
In every port appears;
Nor that the flag which streameth now
Hath waved a thousand years.

'Tis not the sceptre, nor the sword,
Nor gold, nor precious stone;
True sympathy hath knit the cord
That binds us to the Throne.

Thy sires, in siege and battle field
Full bravely bore their part;
But, without strife to thee doth yield
The fortress of the heart.

Not land from weakling nations rent
Shall keep thy memory green;
But this--thy lasting monument--
She was _the peoples' Queen_.

THE PRINCESS OF WALES

1863--1892.

Seems it yestreen since we
First hailed thee, beautous bride!
Sweet-smiling, by the side
Of Him, our king to be.

Cheek of the pink sea-shell;
Eyes of the summer blue,

Locks of the brown-gold hue;
Voice clear as silver bell.

The myriads crowd the street;
Glad music, nigh and far,
Outsoundeth earthly jar;
And tenders welcome meet.

* * * * *

Once more thy form I see,
Amid thy family band
Save one, on Scottish strand,
And twain--where seraphs be.

Nor fled thy winsome grace;
Nor did thy beauty fade,
Though sad bereavement's shade
Hath paled thy peerless face.

Still sway with gentle hand;
Still live thy lovesome life
Fond mother! faithful wife!
First princess of first land.

CANADA

TO

H. R. H. PRINCE GEORGE.

MAY 4TH, 1893.

Time was when tyrants reigned,
When law was law for naught;
When man, with mind distraught,
Knelt with allegiance feigned.

Now, in these ampler days
When dews of peace distil,
When all may climb who will,
Just souls may justly praise.

Ours was thine earlier sorrow;
Ours is thy later joy;
No base, unmeet alloy;
No faithless, vague to-morrow.

But tender, soulful, true;
O'er leagues of greening plain,
From east to western main,
'Neath all our brightening blue.

Knit by love's kindred tie,
Heart wafteth unto heart
Weal, time nor space may part:
Best gift from low or high.

Best gifts, Oh Prince! be thine
In whom our hopes repose;
Thine, and thy English Rose;
Till crowned of crown divine.

GLADSTONE.

Vain be the rare genius of sage or of scholar,
Philosophy's nursling, or gifted of song;
Vain, minds of rich culture, with tones of choice music,
If cradled in falsity, nurtured in wrong.

But cloudless the intellect sunned of fair Freedom;
Full lofty the soul which, with feelings refined,
Doth lift up a voice for the weal of the nations;
Ennobling with sympathy all of his kind.

Fair Freedom! thou star in the night of the ages!
Thou radiant in fervor! thou essence divine!
He! highest in soul-height, doth build up thine altars;
While devotees faithful, bend low at thy shrine.

The far-seeing wisdom of mercy which hailed thee,
Hath wooed thee to listen the suppliant's song;
Hath wooed and hath won thee through love, lit of reason;--
Heaven's benison laurel the healer of wrong!

SIR JOHN A. MACDONALD.

BORN 11TH JAN., 1815--DIED 6TH JUNE, 1891.

Dimmed thy bright eyes, Oh Canada!
Bedimmed with the incense of woe;
Hushed thy young joy-peals of laughter;
Whose heart beat to thine lieth low.
Great heart! which, in truest devotion,
Kept faith to its earliest shrine;
Great land! widely girthed of each ocean;
His lifetime of service was thine.

Well mays't thou weep, yet not repine;
Rude wert thou, an untutored child,
When first his strong, firm hand clasped thine,
And led thee o'er thy boundless wild,
And cleared the mists from thy young eyes,
As with magician's gifted wand;
Till Hope's bright dawn illumed thy skies,
And glorified this boundless land.

The mind astute discerned thy force;
The springs of plenty watered dearth;
Then rose, from infound, ample source,
The mightiest structure on this earth:
The home where freeborn souls are free;
Where, 'neath blue skies, o'er rich green sod
No worship bends the humble knee,
Save homage to fair Freedom's God.

Though sore thy heart, Oh Canada!
Grudge not thy Chief his well-earned rest;
The veteran who hath braved the strife
May fold his arms o'er peaceful breast.
Droop banners o'er his honored bier!
Strew _immortelles_ of every clime!
His larger life, in nobler sphere,
Is bounded not with hedge of time.

HON. ALEX. MACKENZIE.

BORN 28TH JANY., 1822--DIED 17TH APRIL, 1892.

Draw nigh with reverence, Canada!
Beyond all strain of mortal toil
He lieth, with unstainèd crest
Calm-sleeping on his chosen soil.
No higher boon may patriot crave
Than grateful country's honest tear;
Whilst Faith, outreaching 'yond the grave,
With stainless emblem decks the bier.

Rare mind! firm as the granite stone
From out thy much-loved Scottish hills;
Soul! clear as sunlight's upper zone
When smiling o'er Canadian rills.
Oh! well for thee, belovèd land!
That, ripening to thy golden prime,
Stout hearts, and faithful held thine hand
And led thee on to ampler time.

Embalm his memory, Canada!
Nor taint with ill his honored name

Who loved thee dearer than his life;
Who, serving thee, rejected fame.
Not now, through many an after year;
In cool, calm retrospect of time,
Shall all his sterling worth appear,
In grandeur fitting and sublime.

Though stilled the aims of lofty end;
Though leaders in the field lie low;
Heaven's purposes shall onward tend,
As ocean wavelets shoreward flow.
Wail not! _he_ walketh in the light
His work, imbued with high intent,
Doth magnify a country's might,
And build his fairest monument.

IN MEMORIAM.[Note]

Falling! all noiselessly falling!
Dim-golden, and russet and grey;
Leaves of the Autumn soul telling,
Earth's loveliness passeth away.

_Here_ the rich strains of rare music,
Borne upwards of summer's soft gale,
Are lost in the sigh of earth's sorrows,
Or sunk in bereavement's sad wail.

_There_ shall dear households long severed
Rejoice in the anthem sublime;

Hosannas of spirits united
Shall echo o'er dirges of time.

Sickness and pain shall evanish;
The years, with their sorrow shall cease;--
O'er the glad souls of the ransomed
Eternity rolleth in peace.

BISHOP MACINTYRE.

On Canaan's border land,
By Jordan's watery gates,
The host of Israel waits;--
They mourn the Guiding-Hand.

With firm, free step he trod
On Pisgah's mountain crest;
He laid him down to rest;
Alone! save with his God.

He sighed no faint farewell;
No murmuring refrains
Out-echoed angel strains;
Nor tolled dull funeral knell.

Thus, as in days gone by
Great leader! careful guide!
God called thee hence, aside;
We might not see thee die.

Yet we have seen--may see
Thy work of nobler life;
The courage through the strife;
Deeds testify of thee.

Rest well! Oh silvered head!
Voice ever prone to bless,
To soothe the soul's distress,
Peace to thy lowly bed!

Though next thy heart, thine own;
Thy sympathies, world wide
Flowed, with unstinted tide;
Bedewed each mortal zone.

Rest well! ye feet which trod
That straight and narrow way
Illumed of purer ray;
Quintessence of our God.

Soul! which hath soared afar,
Beyond the flight of time;
In calm, congenial clime,
No ills thy joys may mar.

Fair spirit! just and wise;
Kind heart of largess love!
Christ-life, all creeds above;
Rest thou in kindred skies.

More glorious eve's bright sun,
More dull seems dolesome night;
So, lost thy glorious light;
And yet--Heaven's will be done.

BISHOP BROOKS.

THE STUDENTS OF HARVARD AWAITING THE FUNERAL CORTEGE.

Why, with uncovered head
Stand they upon that fleece of snow
Mute-stricken, as of sudden woe?
Silent they wait the dead.

Comes there some hero slain
Upon the blood-red field of war?
With soldier-guarded funeral car,
And glittering martial train.

No gun with sullen roar;
No flaunting emblems from the fight
To spread his fame, to tell his might;
Who died, to die no more.

With reverend tread, and slow,
All noiselessly the footsteps fall;
As sombre garb, and plume and pall
Pass o'er the soft, white snow.

'Mid Love's choice offering
Of sweet, rare flowers, whose tender breath
Speak brightest life, serenest death,
He lies, affection's king.

Triumph of Christian faith
O'er spurious sophistries of time;
The sinless walk; the end sublime,
No ghastly fears to scathe.

Pass on unto thy rest
Thou generous heart! thou rich in lore!
Thou whom all creeds and castes deplore;--
God knoweth what is best.

AFTER MANY YEARS.

If e'er from holier heights there sped
One attribute divine,
To rest upon a mortal head,--
That head, dear love! was thine.

True worth beyond expression towers;
Excess in language mars;--
What artist e'er inspired the flowers,
Or lighted up the stars?

TENNYSON.

ANSWER TO "CROSSING THE BAR."

Clear-shining, evening star!
We make no moan for thee
Who sightest, 'yond the bar,
Blest immortality!

Yet, at thy farewell tone,
Thou glorious poet-king!
The tears unbidden spring
From peoples of each zone.

So long, from loftier sphere,
Thy pure and lustrous rays
Have lit earth's sombre ways:--
No sky may own thy peer.

Oh, never-dying song!
Oh, princely legacy!
Till life shall living be
Thou'lt thrill, the years along.

Mist wreathe, or ocean foam;
The beacon shineth clear,
The joy-bells sound anear,
Beyond the bar is--Home!

Clear-shining, evening star!
We make no moan for thee
Who sightest 'yond the bar,
Blest immortality.

SPURGEON.

"NOTHING BUT FAITH."

Thine was no faith of pulseless form,
Of actor, acting well his _role_;
Or deeming, through mere solemn rites,
To nourish the immortal soul,
Nor thine that bare and stunted growth,
To limits of a sect confined;
Expanding not in broader realm
Than atmosphere by man defined.

Nor thine that crude philosophy
Whose meteor-flash hath oft beguiled
The traveller from clear mountain heights,
To perish on the misty wild.
No gloomy cypress wreath for thee!
Oh brow unkenned of bigot frown!
Fair coronet of laurel leaves;
Meet emblem of thy fadeless crown.

Bright as the pure, cerulean arch,
_Thy_ faith all creeds and rites doth span
And sees, through Love's refining lens,
The Deity in brother man.
With active, humanizing power,
Uplifts the soul, low sunk in sin;
Till, yielding to its tender touch,
The chains unbar--God enters in.

BEECHER.

THE LAST TIME IN PLYMOUTH CHURCH.

The organ grandly pealed;
Still rose the peaceful hymn;
The lights, though waxing dim,
A beauteous sight revealed.

From off the busy street
Into the sacred pile,
Adown the shadowy aisle
Came little wandering feet.

Secure from fear of harm,
With eager, upturned face,
The lone ones rest a space;
Joy-filled of music's charm.

Forgot their hapless fate;
Forgot cold, worlding scorn;
Unseen the life forlorn;
Seems nigh heaven's golden gate.

Upriseth from his seat
He of a world-wide fame;
He of the lustrous name,
Those nameless ones to greet.

The mightiest orb on high
Doth kiss the meanest flower;
True love, in bounteous shower,
Doth rift earth's formal sky.

Stoops low the silvered head
To kiss the smooth young brow,
To seal the sacred vow
Which life-long fragrance shed.

And tenderly his arms
Those boyish forms enfold;
As if, o'er life's drear wold,
He'd shield from rude alarms.

Thus pass they from the sight,
From out the vaulted door;--
_He_ walks the pearly floor,
_They_ grope through dismal night.

Oh scene surpassing fair!
Soul-filling, all sublime;
Undimmed of dark'ning time,
Unlit of earthly glare.

Fair soul of tenderness!
Unselfish, meek and mild,
The waif, the outcast child
Thou deignest to caress.

Sweet, humanizing love!
Beyond choice gifts of mind,
'Yond culture most refined;
Bright essence from above!

Columbia! brave young land!
Long is thy scroll of fame;
Full many a deathless name
Hath led thee by the hand.

High on that scroll of fame,
Whilst hero echoes ring,
Whilst votaries pause to sing,
Shall glow thy Beecher's name.

ALLELUIA.

No more upon Parnassus' hill
Thou'lt string thy patriot lyre;
To tell those feats which nations thrill,
Which youthful spirits fire.
How, on the blood-red battle field
Great heroes fall, but never yield;
True courage is the only shield
Thy whole-souled Briton owns.

No more thou'lt sing thy graceful lays
Of rock, and mount, and stream;
Or cause the light from Heaven's pure rays
O'er nature's face to beam.
We heard the rustle of the tree,
The humming of the busy bee,
When nature waked to life with thee
In joyous harmony.

But though thy harp is silent now,
And hearts may mourn thee long;
Where halos crown the victor's brow
Thou sing'st the angels' song.
Dust mingles with its kindred dust,
Soul joins the army of the just;--
Their Leader was thy hope and trust
Through life's long pilgrimage.

"THREE YEARS."

Here the pain, and gloom and sorrow,
Here the household lone and sad;
_There_ the ever-bright to-morrow,
There the youthful spirit glad.
_Here_ the parents vigil keeping
O'er the beauteous head laid low;
_There_ the eyes which know no weeping
Shall with rapture ever glow.

Bright as were the sunny tresses
Curling o'er the fair, young brow,
Richer far the crown that presses
Round his seraph forehead now.
Clear and chaste as crystal seemeth,
Worthless is it 'side the gem;
So, howe'er earth's beauty gleameth,
Pales its 'fore Heaven's diadem.

Now, his gracious word believing,
Who on earth with woe did weep,
Mingle trustful joy with grieving
O'er the loved, who rests in sleep.
For, where groups of children gather,
He hath joined the choir of praise
Which, around our Heavenly Father,
Chants the hymn of deathless days.

THE EVENING STAR.

I sit me down at eventide
Day's cares receding far,
When sweet! a whisper at my side,
"Mama, come see my star!"

"The only one in all the sky
Away up--Oh, so far!
And yet it shines so beautiful,
My own, dear, lovely star!"

Oh! child of many hopes and fears;
Of many an anxious thought;
Oh life! with parents' prayers and tears,
So oft from Heaven besought.

If spared to pass the tender years
Of infancy and truth;
God keep thee through the slippery path
Of boyhood, and of youth.

And guide thee by His own right hand
In wisdom's pleasant way;
And never in foul vice's snares
Permit thy feet to stray.

And when that love which gazeth now
Into thy sunny eyes
Can only come, at God's good will
In message from the skies.

Oh! should the tempter's net be spread,
Look upward! do not fear;
From 'yond thy star, a mother's love
Will shine thy way to cheer.

If e'er thou reachest manhood's prime,
'Mid pleasures of this world
Let ever, in truth's sacred cause
Thy banner be unfurled.

May all the graces which adorn
Great minds in thee excel;
May't long be said of thee "he served
His generation well."

Thy emblem be yon evening star;
Aye steady in its light;
Calm-peering o'er a world of change;
Ne'er stooping from its height.

When darkness deepens all around,
And rivals fill the field;
Let faith and courage arm thy soul,
And form thy radiant shield.

Then, when thy golden hue of morn
Gives place to sober grey;
And years which never-ending seem
Have fled like one short day.

Relying on that Mighty One
Who raised the starry frame;
Who through life's changes, toils and tears,
Abideth still the same.

Thy feet shall out the swelling flood,
Step safe upon the strand;
And mayhap then, a mother's love
Again shall clasp thy hand,
And lead thee, 'yond thy shining star,
Into the deathless land.

RHYMES OF ANCIENT ROME.

HORATIUS.

B.C. 650.

A plan of fair devising when battle feuds were rife;
To save by lesser sacrifice, a needless waste of life.
Three brothers Curiatii, choice of the Alban band,
Against three brothers Horatii, Rome's proffered champions, stand;
Should Horatii assert their might, the Alban arms would yield,
If Curiatii, then should Rome to servile fate be sealed.

Well fought those manly combatants in sight of either host;
The struggle wavered long and keen, high hopes were rudely tossed;
But strength, upborne of courage, wanes before time's fatal throes,
The brave may strive yet striving fall, as fell those rival foes
Save one, who owed to strategy what prowess might not yield,
A Horatii stood conqueror on Alba's blood-stained field.

Rome is avowed the victor, the battle-sword is sheathed,
And round Horatius' youthful head gay triumph's crown is wreathed:

'Mid gratulations of the camp, 'mid cheerings of the throng
The hero who hath slain to save, is proudly borne along,
When Hark! beyond the joyous notes which stir the balmy air
Upwafteth to his ears the sad reproaches of despair.

"Oh! woe for my belovèd!
My love who loved me so;
Oh cruel hand! Oh evil fate!
Which laid the mighty low.

"Oh brother! dearly hast thou earned
Thy country's noblest boon;
Thou'st quenched the lustre of my life
Ere reached its bright, high noon.

"Thou comest laden rich with spoils,
Thy valor to attest;
One only trophy greets mine eye,
_His_ cloak upon thy breast.

"Go! list the plaudits of the crowd
Whose liberties you save;
One only voice thrills through my soul,
_That_ voice from out the grave.

"For thee shall golden goblets pour,
And glorious rosebays twine;
For me--my heart lies low with his
Whose heart was wholly mine."

Oh maiden! for that prudence which looks beyond the hour;

Oh for that subtle wisdom which holds the key of power!
For calm and callous reasoning, which worketh out its plan,
Which checketh honest principle, and dupeth craft of man.
As in these nigher ages, so in those earlier days,
Keen wit, cool wisdom e'er dissolve beneath Love's fervent rays.

Is it fatigue of battle? why pales the warrior now?
Is it chagrin in triumph's hour which clouds that martial brow?
Both lend their aid, yet greater far than aught on earth beside,
The sore and bitter struggle 'twixt love and wounded pride;
'Twixt patriot-love and brother-love, the love of life's young day;
When sympathy of sisterhood charmed every grief away.

Horatius paused; out flashed the sword which drank her lover's blood;
He plunged it in his sister's heart, he slew her where she stood;
And, as he sheathed the reeking blade which struck the dastard blow,
"So perish every maid" he said "who wails a Roman foe!"
Oh cruel fate! Oh hapless twain! Oh tragic scenes of old!
Go! thank high Heaven these later times are cast in Christian mould.

PYRRHUS.

AFTER HIS DEFEAT OF THE ROMAN ARMY.

B.C. 280.

"If these were my soldiers," he said,
As he glanced o'er the gory field
Where mingled the dying and dead
Of foemen who knew not to yield.
"If these were my soldiers, with standard unfurled,
I should gather the reins of a vanquished world.

"Seven times did we charge on the foe;
As oft did we order retreat;
Seven times, till the ebb and the flow
Brought the battle-tide under our feet.
Yet, unto destruction their courage held fast,
Till destiny weighted the balance at last.

"A victor! yet mourning the lost!
The flower of my army, my pride,
Who led in the conquering host
Lie mute as the serfs by their side.
Oh! mothers of Epirus, what shall atone!
Must the victor ride back with his laurels--alone!

"Unmatched as to numbers we met;
Well mated in ardor we fought;
Ah! never was victory yet
With bloodier sacrifice bought.
Peace be to our dead 'neath Lucanian sods!
Let Valour high-niche them in shrine of the gods!

"But _these_! of Rome's valiant who fell;
Who flinched not, but met every blow
With prowess no language may tell;
With face ever set to the foe.
If these were _my_ soldiers, with standard unfurled,
I should reign, the one king of a whole conquered world."

So is it in life's bitter warfare;
When hosts of wrong-doing assail,
The bravest in spirit, the truest of soul
In heat of the battle oft fail.
They lack in a leader, they parry each blow,
Yet fall in the conflict with face to the foe.

Legions of evil confronting
Firm-footed, position maintain;
Look thou to thine able Commander!
The foeman shall muster in vain.
In phalanx well marshaled, with standard unfurled,
Thou shalt combat and conquer a whole sinning world.

MARIUS.

SEATED ON THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.

B.C. 86.

What voiceth thy bright waters? Oh Sea of the summer clime!
Thou mirror of life's history! thou orator sublime!
What sing thy laughing wavelets as they dance along thy shore?
What moan thy heaving surges, as they sway with sullen roar?
Thou tellest to the breezes soft, which fan thy breast of pride,
That pomp and glory of a world once nestled by thy side;
Thou singest, in the purling wave, quaint rhythms of romance,
Of witching queens and warriors bold, of siege and glistering lance;
Thou wailest, in sad monotone, o'er empires gone for aye;
Thou smilest in benign repose upon this freer day.

Alone on the crumbling ruins! bowed low his agèd head;
Life's wreck 'mid shattered monuments, sole mourners o'er the dead;
Meet emblem of capricious fate, which scorns decrees of man;
Meet site for an exile's musing on Treachery's subtle plan.

Great city of the salt sea wave, on Afric's burnished shore!
That gleaming wave which wailed the dirge of those it proudly bore
To battle in a vain defense, to sleep the sleep profound
Within no sculptured sepulchre, beneath no hallowed ground.
Great Carthage the magnificent! when Slaughter rung thy knell,
Even from thy victor's war-strained eyes, unwonted tear-drops fell.

A fugitive sat Marius; despondent and alone;
Well-nigh forgot of enemies, forsaken of his own.
Where now that voice of terror, those eyes of flashing light
Which awed the Cymbrian jailor, which urged his coward flight?
Where now that haughty form and mien which led the Roman bands
To smite Europa's barbarous hordes back from the classic lands?
Mute are the plaudits of the crowd, seared are the harvest sheaves;
Quenched the chimera light of flame, which gilt the laurel leaves;
Had vanished, as a taunting sprite, those dreams ambition nursed;
The very stones on which he sat were of the gods accursed.

Which is the happier? he who strives the higher heights to gain,

Or he who mingles in the crowd that throngs the nether plain?
Ask ye Ambition's tortured brain if vulgar hue and cry
The craving of the loftier mood doth fully satisfy:
Ask of keen Avarice if its hoard e'er soothed a sin-fraught breast,
Or purchased peace of mind, or charmed a conscience into rest.
I wot 'tis safer far to bide in calm contentment's vale,
And o'er the placid inland seas to peaceful moorings sail.
Even those whose largess, honest worth doth merit just renown
What are they save the shining mark for Envy to uncrown.

Doth muse Oh Marius! on that hour when blasts of martial horn
Across thy peasant heritage through haunts of toil were borne?
When thy young heart throbbed high to join that glittering array,
Which owned thee chief in valor's van through many an after day.
Dost storm Numantia's battlements, whence arrows showered as rain?
Dost stand in thickest of the fight on crimsoned fields of Spain?
Or sittest thou an honored guest, where flows the festive tide?
Thy plebeian birth no barrier, by Africanus' side?
Dost list that certain prophecy that should his race be run,

The mantle of his might should fall on thee, great Valor's son?

Raise up thy head, Oh Marius! look forth ayond the wave!
Yield not to dire despondency; ills conquer not the brave;
Think of thy former exile, then of that glorious hour
When suffrage of the multitude invested thee with power:
When Rome's patricians bent the knee around thy self-built throne,
And all the wills of every land succumbed unto thine own:
Though Envy forged the coward chains which dragged thy scepter down,
It may not wrest from memory thy record of renown;
Arise! reward of courage waits, the dismal night is o'er;
That sun is dawning which will flush thy Civic crown once more.

BRUTUS.

THE LAST CAMPAIGN.

B.C. 42.

The warrior doffed his heavy helm,
Unclasped the sheath from off his breast;
He turned aside from sword and lance,
Yet sought no couch of needful rest.

His soul was filled with new, strange dread,
Since haunting ghosts of evil done
Uprose, and banished from his mind
All war plans for the rising sun.

Again the blazing holocaust
Of patriot Xanthus greets his eyes;
Again before his ruthless hand
The plundered Lycian peasant flies.

Once more within the Senate House
He lists those accents, full and clear,
Which plead the sacred rights of Rome;--
Brave warrior! statesman without peer!

He sees the quivering sunbeams play
Upon the sandal's burnished gold;
And light the gorgeous Tyrian dyes
Which deck that form of princely mould,

Then stream o'er proud, patrician crest
Down to the swaying mass below;

Whose wills imbibe the speaker's will,
As well aimed darts from high strung bow.

Ingrate, he joins the dastard few
That round the mighty Cæsar stand,
And stains his weapon to the hilt
With noblest blood in Roman land.

He hears the astonished "Brutus, thou!"
He marks the sad, reproachful eye,
Ere, wrapped within the toga folds,
The lofty head bows down to die.

No war blast wakes a sleeping world;
Deep silence broodeth o'er the camp;
Still, careless as to wanted rest
Sits Brutus by the flickering lamp.

Is it a phantom, that giant form,
Or spirit to human shape lent,
Which glideth, with never a warning,
From shadow land into the tent?

Of stature majestic; erect;
Terrific of feature, stern-eyed;
No token, save only a look;
Such look as all welcome defied.

"Thy name," said the awe struck warrior
"Thy name and thy purpose unfold?"
His tones wore the mask of fortitude,
But the stream from his heart ran cold.

"My name"--and the dark scowl deepened
As the lips of the mystic unsealed;
"My name is--thy genius of evil;--
We shall meet on Philippi's red field!"

Hushed were the dire, prophetic tones;
The vision vanished as it came;
But, from that hour in Brutus' soul
Was crushed Ambition's furious flame.

No more he dreamt to enter Rome
In laurel-wreathed triumphal car;
With captive monarchs in his train,
With spoils and trophies from afar.

Nor e'er to quaff the festive bowl
'Neath purple canopy of state;
Whilst bard and sage his feats rehearse,
And martial throngs his bidding wait.

Ah, Cæsar! thou wert well avenged,
When on its lowly, greenwood bed,
Defeated valour stooped to swell
The army of ignoble dead.

Though on those ancient battle-fields,
Sapped with the blood of myriad slain,
The suns of centuries have smiled,
And reapers gathered golden grain.

Though pomp and power of ancient Rome
With Roman idols passed away,
The thirst of power, and greed of gain
Live on to mar this later day.

Still boastful arrogance excels,
And moneyed ignorance soareth high;
Still fashion rules the world of sham;
Still man for man in strife must die.

Yet, sure as rills from mountain source
Through varied channels seaward run;
So surely ill will track the course
Of him that hath the evil done.

And conscience seared, lethargic-souled,
Who deal in evil to the last
Must realize, beyond the bourne,
Deservèd doom, and mercy past.

MARCUS CURTIUS.

A LEGEND.

Still, in these balmier days of Rome,
The mother tells her child
That once, within the Forum, oped
A chasm deep and wild.

That every heart, with horror chilled,
Unto the altar hied;
Soothsayers, augurs sought the cause,
Yet answer was denied.

At length an agèd seer proclaimed,
"The gods will vengeance wreak,

Till choicest gift, cast in the gulf,
Doth penitence bespeak."

The mother shuddering, clasps her babe
More closely to her breast;
The warrior who ne'er feared a foe
Bends low his mailèd crest.

The heartless miser hugs his gold;
Affection claims its own;
Yet, mystery beyond all ken,
Such gifts might ill atone.

'Neath blackened sky the wind moans on,
Wide yawns the dark abyss;--
Oh Heavens! was ever sore suspense
Or terror like to this!

* * * * *

Hark! sweet as angel symphony,
"'Tis found! the offering's found!"
And forward press the eager throng
To find due vantage ground.

What star descendeth through the gloom
To rift dark sorrow's night?
Is't hero from the battle field,
Or monarch girt with might?

Up rides young Marcus Curtius
Upon his milk white steed;
No word, but waving of the hand,
As he dashes on with speed.

Unto the dreary chasm's mouth;--
The frighted charger springs,
He rears, he snorts, and foamy flakes
O'er Curtius' armor flings.

Fair picture for all spheres and times!
Upon death's borderland,
One gleam of sunshine for his crown,
See Rome's self martyr stand!

He gently soothed his noble horse;
Then, as from silver bell,
Upon the wondering multitude,
His calm, clear accents fell.

"Romans!" he said, "not arms, not wealth
Heaven claims of you this day;
Nor gifts of wisdom, love or lore,
Howe'er so precious they.

"Hear me, Oh citizens of Rome!
This lesson richly prize;
Best gift and parent of good deeds
Is true _self_-sacrifice.

"I offer to the immortal gods,
Who hark my solemn vow,
That life which for my country lived;
Which dieth for it now."

He backed his steed; threw down his casque
Gazed on the Sacred Height;
Then--forward to the vast abyss
As soldier to the fight.

With right hand raised above his head,
His sword within its sheath,
He urges on the maddened steed
Which bears him to his death.

One moment, and with mighty bound,
He plunges to repose;
One dull, sad sound; but one, and then--
The yawning gulf doth close.

CRAWFURD CASTLE.

CRAWFURD CASTLE.