Chapter I: The Noble Purposes of Eloquence (10)

Thus 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 unseen Censor,
Swung by angels whose faint 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 thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
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 Aiden,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare 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 of 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 dreaming,
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!
E. A. Poe.

CLXII.

SPIRIT OF PATRIOTISM.

Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,--
"This is my own,--my native land!"
Whose heart hath never within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go mark him well,--
For him,--no minstrel raptures swell!
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch concentered all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored and unsung!
Sir W. Scott.

CLXIII.

LOCHINVAR.

Young Lochinvar is come out of the West!
Through all the wide Border his steed is the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapon had none;--
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;--
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented--the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar!

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among tribesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all.
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword--
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word--
"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?--
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long wooed your daughter;--my suit you denied:
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide!
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure--drink one cup of wine.
There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!"

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up--
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup!
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,--
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar;--
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lively her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace!
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
And the bridemaidens whispered, "'T were better, by far,
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!"

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear--
When they reached the hall door, where the charger stood near;
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!--
"She is won!--we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" cried young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie lea!
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see!--
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar!
Sir W. Scott.

CLXIV.

MARMION TAKING LEAVE OF DOUGLAS.

The train from out the castle drew;
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:--
"Though something I might plain," he said,
"Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by your king's behest,
While in Tantallon's towers I stayed,--
Part we in friendship from your land,
And, noble earl, receive my hand."
But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:--
"My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still
Be open, at my sovereign's will,
To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
My castles are my king's alone,
From turret to foundation-stone;--
The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp!"
Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire,
And--"This to me!" he said,--
"An 't were not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
To cleave the Douglas' head!
And, first, I tell thee, Haughty peer,
He who does England's message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate!
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,
E'en in thy pitch of pride,
Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near--
(Nay, never look upon your lord,
And lay your hands upon your sword,)
I tell thee, thou'rt defied!
And if thou said'st I am not a peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,
Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"
On the earl's cheek the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age:
Fierce he broke forth: "And darest thou, then,
To beard the lion in his den,--
The Douglas in his hall?
And hopest thou hence unscathed to go?
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!--
Up drawbridge, grooms! what, warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall."
Lord Marmion turned,--well was his need,--
And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung;
The ponderous gate behind him rung:
To pass, there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending, razed his plume.

The steed along the drawbridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise;
Not lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim:
And when Lord Marmion reached his band,
He halts, and turns with clenched hand,
A shout of loud defiance pours,
And shakes his gauntlet at the towers!
Sir W. Scott.

CLXV.

HIGHLAND WAR-SONG.

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, pibroch of Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew, summon Clan Conuil.
Come away, come away, hark to the summons!
Come in your war-array, gentles and commons.
Come from deep glen, and from mountain so rocky;
The war-pipe and pennon are at Inverlocky.
Come every hill-plaid, and true heart that wears one,
Come every steel blade, and strong hand that bears one.
Leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter;
Leave the corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar;
Leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges:
Come with your fighting gear, broadswords and targes.
Come as the winds come, when forests are rended,
Come as the waves come, when navies are stranded:
Faster come, faster come, faster and faster,
Chief, vassal, page and groom, tenant and master.
Fast they come, fast they come; see how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle plume, blended with heather.
Cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each man set!
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, knell for the onset!
Sir W. Scott.

CLXVI.

DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.

The king stood still
Till the last echo died; then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:--

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom!

"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill,
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee!
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,
Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee,
And hear thy sweet 'My father!' from those dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!

"But death is on thee; I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;--
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come
To meet me, Absalom!

"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee. Absalom!

"And now, farewell! 'T is hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee!--
And thy dark skin!--oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively as if in prayer;
And, as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently--and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
N. P. Willis.

CLXVII.

"LOOK NOT UPON THE WINE."

Look not upon the wine when it
Is red within the cup!
Stay not for pleasure when she fills
Her tempting beaker up!

Though clear its depths, and rich its glow,
A spell of madness lurks below.
They say 't is pleasant on the lip,
And merry on the brain;

They say it stirs the sluggish blood,
And dulls the tooth of pain.
Ay--but within its glowing deeps
A stinging serpent, unseen, sleeps.

Its rosy lights will turn to fire,
Its coolness change to thirst;
And, by its mirth, within the brain
A sleepless worm is nursed.
There's not a bubble at the brim
That does not carry food for him.

Then dash the brimming cup aside,
And spill its purple wine;
Take not its madness to thy lip--
Let not its curse be thine.
'T is red and rich but grief and woe
Are in those rosy depths below.
N. P. Willis.

CLXVIII.

THE LEPER.

Day was breaking,
When at the altar of the temple stood
The holy priest of God. The incense lamp
Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant
Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof,
Like an articulate wail; and there, alone,
Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt.
The echoes of the melancholy strain
Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up,
Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head
Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off
His costly raiment for the leper's garb,
And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip
Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still,
Waiting to hear his doom:--

"Depart! depart, O child
Of Israel, from the temple of thy God!
For He has smote thee with His chastening rod,
And to the desert-wild,
From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee,
That from thy plague His people may be free.

"Depart! and come not near
The busy mart, the crowded city, more;
Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er.
And stay thou not to hear
Voices that call thee in the way; and fly
From all who in the wilderness pass by.

"Wet not thy burning lip
In streams that to a human dwelling glide;
Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide;
Nor kneel thee down to dip
The water where the pilgrim bends to drink,
By desert well, or river's grassy brink.

"And pass not thou between
The weary traveller and the cooling breeze;
And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees
Where human tracks are seen;
Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain
Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain.

"And now depart! and when
Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim,
Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him,
Who, from the tribes of men,
Selected thee to feel His chastening rod--
Depart! O leper! and forget not God!"

And he went forth--alone! not one of all
The many whom he loved, nor she whose name
Was woven in the fibres of the heart
Breaking within him now, to come and speak
Comfort unto him. Yea, he went his way,
Sick and heart-broken, and alone--to die!
For God had cursed the leper!

It was noon,
And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool
In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow,
Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched
The loathsome water to his fevered lips,
Praying he might be so blest--to die!
Footsteps approached, and with no strength to flee,
He drew the covering closer on his lip,
Crying, "Unclean!--unclean!" and in the folds
Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face,
He fell upon the earth till they should pass.
Nearer the Stranger came, and bending o'er
The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name--
"Helon!" The voice was like the master-tone
Of a rich instrument--most strangely sweet;
And the dull pulses of disease awoke,
And for a moment beat beneath the hot
And leprous scales with a restoring thrill.
"Helon arise!" And he forgot his curse,
And rose and stood before him.

Love and awe
Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye,
As he beheld the Stranger. He was not
In costly raiment clad, nor on His brow
The symbol of a lofty lineage wore;
No followers at His back, nor in His hand
Buckler, or sword, or spear--yet in His mien
Command sat throned serene, and if He smiled,
A kingly condescension graced His lips,
The lion would have crouched to in his lair.
His garb was simple, and His sandals worn;
His statue modelled with a perfect grace;
His countenance, the impress of a God,
Touched with the open innocence of a child;
His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky
In the serenest noon; His hair, unshorn,
Fell to His shoulders; and His curling beard
The fulness of perfected manhood bore.
He looked on Helon earnestly awhile,
As if His heart was moved; and stooping down,
He took a little water in His hand
And laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean!"
And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood
Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins,
And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow
The dewy softness of an infant's stole.
His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down
Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshiped him.
N. P. Willis.

CLXLX.

PARRHASIUS AND THE CAPTIVE.

The golden light into the painter's room
Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole
From the dark pictures radiantly forth,
And in the soft and dewy atmosphere,
Like forms and landscapes magical they lay.
Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus--
The vulture at his vitals, and the links
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth
With its far-reaching fancy, and with form
And color clad them, hiss fine earnest eye
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of His thin nostril, and his quivering lip
Were like the wingéd god's, breathing from his fight

"Bring me the captive, now!
My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift,
And I could paint the bow
Upon the bended heavens--around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.

"Ha! bind him on his back!
Look!--as Prometheus in my picture here!
Quick!--or he faints!--stand with the cordial near!
Now--bend him on the rack!
Press down the poisoned links into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh!

"So,--let him writhe! How long
Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow!
Ha! gray-haired and so strong!
How fearfully he stifles that short moan!
Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!

"'Pity' thee! So I do!
I pity the dumb victim at the altar--
But does the robed priest for his pity falter?
I'd rack thee, though I knew
A thousand lives were perishing in thine--
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?

"But, there's a deathless name!
A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And, like a steadfast planet, mount and burn--
And though its crown of flame
Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone--
By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!

"Ay--though it bid me rifle
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst--
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first--
Though it should bid me stifle
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild--

"All--I would do it all--
Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot--
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!
O heavens!--but I appall
Your heart, old man!--forgive--ha! on your lives
Let him not faint! rack him till he revives!

"Vain--vain--give o'er. His eye
Glazes apace. He does not feel you now--
Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow!
Gods! if he do not die,
But for one moment--one--till I eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!

"Shivering! Hark! he mutters
Brokenly now--that was a difficult breath--
Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death?
Look! how his temple flutters!
Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!
He shudders--gasps--Jove help him--so--he's dead."

How like a mounting devil in the heart
Rules the unreined ambition! Let it once
But play the monarch, and its haughty brow
Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought,
And enthrones peace forever. Putting on
The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns
The heart to ashes, and with not a spring
Left in the bosom for the spirit's life,
We look upon our splendor, and forget
The thirst of which we perish!
Oh, if earth be all, and heaven nothing,
What thrice mocked fools are we!
N. P. Willis.

CLXX.

CASABIANCA.

The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.

The flames rolled on. He would not go
Without his father's word;
That father faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud: "say, father, say
If yet my task is done!"
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!"
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
In still, yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud,
"My father! must I stay?"
While o'er him fast through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child
Like banners in the sky.

Then came a burst of thunder sound--
The boy--oh! where was he!
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea,

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young faithful heart!
Mrs. Hemans.

CLXXI.

THE BENDED BOW.

There was heard the sound of a coming foe,
There was sent through Britain a bended bow;
And a voice was poured on the free winds far,

As the land rose up at the sound of war:
Heard ye not the battle horn?
Reaper! leave thy golden corn!
Leave it for the birds of heaven;
Swords must flash, and spears be riven:
Leave it for the winds to shed,--
Arm! ere Britain's turf grows red!
And the reaper armed, like a freeman's son;
And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

Hunter! leave the mountain chase!
Take the falchion from its place!
Let the wolf go free to-day;
Leave him for a nobler prey!
Let the deer ungalled sweep by,--
Arm thee! Britain's foes are nigh!
And the hunter armed, ere the chase was done;
And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

Chieftain! quit the joyous feast!
Stay not till the song hath ceased:
Though the mead be foaming bright,
Though the fire gives ruddy light,
Leave the hearth and leave the hall,--
Arm thee! Britain's foes must fall!
And the chieftain armed, and the horn was blown;
And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

Prince! thy father's deeds are told
In the bower and in the hold,
Where the goatherd's lay is sung,
Where the minstrel's harp is strung!
Foes are on thy native sea,--
Give our bards a tale of thee!
And the prince came armed, like a leader's son;
And the bended bow and the voice passed on.
Mother! stay thou not thy boy!
He must learn the battle's joy.
Sister! bring the sword and spear,
Give thy brother words of cheer!
Maiden! bid thy lover part;
Britain calls the strong in heart!
And the bended bow and the voice passed on;
And the bards made song of a battle won.
Mrs. Hemans.

CLXXII.

THE BETTER LAND.

"I hear thee speak of the better land,
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother! O where is that radiant shore?--
Shall we not seek it and weep no more?--
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance thro' the myrtle boughs?"
--"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds, on starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"
--"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?--
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?"
Is it there, sweet mother! that better land?"
--"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair--
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
--It is there, it is there, my child"
Mrs. Hemans.

CLXXIII.

LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woads against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of Exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums
And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear;--
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,
And the stars heard, and the sea!
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free!

The ocean eagle soared
From his nest by the white wave's foam,
And the rocking pines of the forest roared;--
This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that Pilgrim band;
Why have they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow, serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus, afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?
--They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod!
They have left unstained what there they found--
Freedom to worship God!
Mrs. Hemans.

CLXXIV

BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.

The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire,
And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire;--
"I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my captive train,
I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!--O! break my father's chain!"
--"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day!
Mount thy good horse; and thou and I will meet him on his way."
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed,
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed.

And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band,
With one that 'midst them stately rode, as leader in the land:
"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he,
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see."

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's hue
came and went;
He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting,
bent;
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took--
What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?

That hand was cold--a frozen thing--it dropped from his like lead!
He looked up to the face above,--the face was of the dead!
A plume waved o'er the noble brow,--the brow was fixed and white:
He met at last, his father's eyes,--but in them was no light!

Up from the ground he sprang and gazed,--but who could paint that gaze?
They hushed their very hearts that saw its horror and amaze;--
They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood;
For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.

"Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then:
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!
He thought on all his hopes, and all his young renown,--
He flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down.

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow,--
"No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for, now;
My king is false,--my hope betrayed! My father--O! the worth,
The glory, and the loveliness are passed away from earth!

"I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside thee, yet!
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met!
Thou wouldst have known my spirit, then;--for thee my fields were won;
And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!"

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein,
Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train;
And, with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led
And sternly set them face to face--the king before the dead:--

"Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss?--
Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this?
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought,--give answer, where are
they?
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold
clay!

"Into these glassy eyes put light;--be still! keep down thine ire!--
Bid these white lips a blessing speak,--this earth is not my sire:
Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed!--
Thou canst not?--and a king!--his dust be mountains on thy head"

He loosed the steed,--his slack hand fell;--upon the silent face
He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place:
His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain:--
His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of Spain.
Mrs. Hemans.

CLXXV.

BERNARDO AND KING ALPHONSO.

With some good ten of his chosen men,
Bernardo hath appeared,
Before them all in the palace hall,
The lying king to beard;
With cap in hand and eye on ground,
He came in reverend guise,
But ever and anon he frowned,
And flame broke from his eyes.

"A curse upon thee," cries the king,
"Who com'st unbid to me!
But what from traitor's blood should spring,
Save traitor like to thee?
His sire, lords, had a traitor's heart,--
Perchance our champion brave
May think it were a pious part
To share Don Sancho's grave."

--"Whoever told this tale,
The king hath rashness to repeat,"
Cries Bernard, "here my gage I fling
Before the liar's feet!
No treason was in Sancho's blood--
No stain in mine doth lie:
Below the throne what knight will own
The coward calumny?

"The blood that I like water shed,
When Roland did advance,
By secret traitors hired and led,
To make us slaves of France;
The life of king Alphonso
I saved at Roncesval--
Your words, Lord King, are recompense
Abundant for it all.

"Your horse was down--your hope was flown--
I saw the falchion shine
That soon had drunk your royal blood,
Had I not ventured mine;
But memory soon of service done
Deserteth the ingrate;
You've thanked the son for life and crown
By the father's bloody fate.

"Ye swore upon your kingly faith
To set Don Sancho free;
But, curse upon your paltering breath!
The light he never did see;
He died in dungeon cold and dim,
By Alphonso's base decree;
And visage blind and stiffened limb,
Were all they gave to me.

"The king that swerveth from his word,
Hath stained his purple black;
No Spanish lord will draw his sword
Behind a liar's back;
But noble vengeance shall be mine,
And open hate I'll show--
The king hath injured Carpio's line,
And Bernard is his foe!"

--"Seize, seize him!" loud the King doth scream;
"There are a thousand here!
Let his foul blood this instant stream;--
What! caitiffs, do ye fear?
Seize, seize the traitor!" But not one
To move a finger dareth;
Bernardo standeth by the throne,
And calm his sword he bareth.

He drew the falchion from the sheath,
And held it up on high;
And all the hall was still as death;--
Cries Bernard, "Here am I--
And here's the sword that owns no lord,
Excepting Heaven and me;
Fain would I know who dares its point,--
King, Condé or Grandee."

Then to his mouth his horn he drew--
It hung below his cloak--
His ten true men the signal knew,
And through the ring they broke;
With helm on head, and blade in hand,
The knights the circle break,
And back the lordlings 'gan to stand,
And the false king to quake.

"Ha! Bernard," quoth Alphonso,
"What means this warlike guise?
Ye know full well I jested--
Ye know your worth I prize!"
But Bernard turned upon his heel,
And, smiling, passed away:--
Long rued Alphonso and his realm
The jesting of that day!
J. G. Lockhart.

CLXXVI.

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

One more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly
Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing:
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully
Gentle and humanly;
Not of the stains of her--
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful:
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.

Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
While wonderment guesses
Where was her home?

Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful
Near a whole city full
Home she had none!

Sisterly, brotherly
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed:
Love by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.

When the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood with amazement
Houseless by night.
The bleak winds of March
Made her tremble and shiver
But not the dark arch,
Of the black flowing river.

Mad from life's history
Glad to death's mystery
Swift to be hurled--
Anywhere, anywhere,
Out of the world--
In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran.

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly
Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,
smooth, and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity,

Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest.
--Cross her hands humbly
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!
T. Hood.

CLXXVII.

SONG OF THE SHIRT.

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!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!

"Oh! men, with sisters dear!
Oh! men with mothers and wives!
--It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch,--stitch,--stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A shroud as well as a shirt.

"But why do I talk of death,
That Phantom of grizzly bone?
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own;
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work,--work,--work!
My labor never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread,--and rags.--
That shattered roof,--and this naked floor,--
A table,--a broken chair,--
And a wall so blank, my shadow I 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,
And work,--work,--work,
When the weather is warm and bright;
While underneath 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 sweets--
With the sky above my head
And the grass beneath my feet;
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel
Before I knew the woes of want,
And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh! for but one short hour,
A respite, however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart;
But in their briny 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 song could reach the rich!--
She sang this "Song of the Shirt."
T. Hood.

CLXXVIII.

LOOK ALOFT.

In the tempest of life, when the waves and the gale
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail,
If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart,
"Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart.

If thy friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow,
With a smile for each joy, and a tear for each woe,
Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are arrayed,
"Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.

Should the visions which hope spreads in light to the eye,
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,
Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret,
"Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set.

Should they who are dearest,--the son of thy heart,
The wife of thy bosom,--in sorrow depart,
"Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb,
To that soil where affection is ever to bloom.

And, oh! when Death comes in his terror to cast
His fears on the future, his pall on the past,
In that moment of darkness with hope in thy heart,
And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft"--and depart.
J. Lawrence.

CLXXIX.

PRESS ON.

Press on! there's no such word as fail!
Press nobly on! the goal is near,--
Ascend the mountain! breast the gale!
Look upward, onward,--never fear!
Why should'st thou faint? Heaven smiles above,
Though storm and vapor intervene;
That sun shines on, whose name is Love,
Serenely o'er Life's shadowed scene.
Press on! surmount the rocky steeps,
Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch;
He fails alone who feebly creeps;
He wins who dares the hero's march.
Be thou a hero! let thy might
Tramp on eternal snows its way,
And, through the ebon wails of night
Hew down a passage unto day.
Press on! if once and twice thy feet
Slip back and stumble, harder try;
From him who never dreads to meet
Danger and death, they're sure to fly.
To coward ranks the bullet speeds,
While on their breasts, who never quail,
Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds,
Bright courage, like a coat of mail.
Press on! if Fortune play thee false
To-day, to-morrow she'll be true;
Whom now she sinks, she now exalts
Taking old gifts, and granting new.
The wisdom of the present hour
Makes up for follies past and gone;--
To weakness strength succeeds, and power
From frailty springs,--press on! press on!

Press bravely on! and reach the goal,
And gain the prize, and wear the crown;
Faint not! for to the steadfast soul
Come wealth, and honor, and renown.
To thine own self be true, and keep
Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil;
Press on! and thou shalt surely reap
A heavenly harvest for thy toil.
P. Benjamin.

CLXXX.

KINDNESS.

The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter
Have their own season. 'T is a little thing
To give a cup of water; yet its draught
Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips,
May give a shock of pleasure to the frame
More exquisite than when sectarian juice
renews the life of joy in happiest hours.
It is a little thing to speak a phrase
Of common comfort which by daily use
Has almost lost its sense; yet on the ear
Of him who thought to die unmourned 't will fall
Like choicest music; fill the glazing eye
With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand
To know the bonds of fellowship again;
And shed on the departing soul a sense
More precious than the benison of friends
About the honored death-bed of the rich,
To him who else were lonely, that another
Of the great family is near and feels.
Sergeant Talfourd.

CLXXXI.

HOW'S MY BOY?

Ho, sailor of the sea!
How 's my boy--my boy?
"What's your boy's name, good wife,
And in what good ship sailed he?"

My boy John--
He that went to sea--
What care I for the ship, sailor?
My boy's my boy to me.

You come back from sea
And not know my John?
I might as well have asked some landsman
Yonder down in the town.
There's not an ass in all the parish
But he knows my John.
How's my boy--my boy?

And unless you let me know
I'll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no,
Brass button or no, sailor,
Anchor or crown or no!
Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton--
"Speak low, woman, speak low!"

And why should I speak low, sailor?
About my own boy John?
If I was loud as I am proud
I'll sing him over the town!
Why should I speak low, sailor?--
"That good ship went down."

How 's my boy--my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor,
I never was aboard her.
Be she afloat, or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound,
Her owners can afford her!
I say how's my John?--
"Every man on board went down,
Every man aboard her."

How's my boy--my boy?
What care I for the men, sailor?
I'm not their mother--
How's my boy--my boy?
Tell me of him and no other!
How's my boy--my boy?
S. Dobell.

CLXXXII.

EXCELSIOR.

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
"Excelsior!"

His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath;
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue!
"Excelsior!"

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright:
Above, the spectral glaciers shone;
And from his lips escaped a groan,
"Excelsior!"

"Try not the pass!" the old man said;
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead.
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
And loud that clarion voice replied,
"Excelsior!"

"O, stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"--
A tear stood in his bright blue eye;
But still he answered with a sigh,
"Excelsior!"

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!
Beware the awful avalanche!"
This was the peasant's last good night;--
A voice replied, far up the height,
"Excelsior!"

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered their oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
"Excelsior!"

A traveller,--by the faithful hound,
Half buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
"Excelsior!"

There, in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless but beautiful he lay;
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,--
"Excelsior!"
H. W. Longfellow.

CLXXXIII.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us further than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting;
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;--

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
H. W. Longfellow.

CLXXXIV.

THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP.

All is finished, and at length
Has come the bridal day
Of beauty and of strength.
To-day the vessel shall be launched!
With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched,
And o'er the bay,
Slowly, in all his splendors dight,
The great sun rises to behold the sight.

The ocean old,
Centuries old,
Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,
Paces restless to and fro,
Up and down the sands of gold.
His beating heart is not at rest;
And far and wide
With ceaseless flow
His beard of snow
Heaves with the heaving of his breast.

He waits impatient for his bride.
There she stands,
With her foot upon the sands,
Decked with flags and streamers gay,
In honor of her marriage-day,
Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,
Round her like a veil descending,
Ready to be
The bride of the gray old sea.

Then the Master,
With a gesture of command,
Waved his hand;
And at the word,
Loud and sudden there was heard,
All around them and below,
The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
knocking away the shores and spurs.
And see! she stirs!
She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel
The thrill of life along her keel,
And, spurning with her foot the ground,
With one exulting, joyous bound,
She leaps into the ocean's arms.

And lo! from the assembled crowd
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
That to the ocean seemed to say,
"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray;
Take her to thy protecting arms,
With all her youth and all her charms."

How beautiful she is! how fair
She lies within those arms, that press
Her form with many a soft caress
Of tenderness and watchful care!
Sail forth into the sea, O ship!
Through wind and wave, right onward steer!
The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
Are not the signs of doubt or fear.

Sail forth into the sea of life,
O gentle, loving, trusting wife,
And safe from all adversity,
Upon the bosom of that sea
Thy comings and thy goings be!
For gentleness, and love, and trust,
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust;
And in the wreck of noble lives
Something immortal still survives!

Thou, too, sail on, O ship of State!
Sail on, O Union, strong and great!
Humanity, with all its fears,
With all its hopes of future years,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
We know what Master laid thy keel,
What workman wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a forge, and what a heat,
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope.

Fear not each sudden sound and shock;
'T is of the wave, and not the rock;
'T is but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale.
In spite of rock and tempest roar,
In spite of false lights on the shore,
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea.
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee:
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
Are all with thee--are all with thee.
H. W. Longfellow.

CLXXXV.

THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT.

Forced from home and all its pleasures,
Afric's coast I left forlorn;
To increase a stranger's treasures,
O'er the raging billows borne.
Men from England bought and sold me,
Paid my price in paltry gold;
But though slave they have enrolled me,
Minds are never to be sold.
Still in thought as free as ever,
What are England's rights, I ask,
Me from my delights to sever,
Me to torture, me to task?
Fleecy locks and black complexion
Cannot forfeit Nature's claim;
Skins may differ, but affection
Dwells in white and black the same.

Why did all-creating Nature
Make the plant for which we toil?
Sighs must fan it, tears must water,
Sweat of ours must dress the soil.
Think, ye masters, iron-hearted,
Lolling at your jovial boards;
Think how many backs have smarted
For the sweets your cane affords.

Is there, as ye sometimes tell us,
Is there One who reigns on high?
Has He bid you buy and sell us,
Speaking from His throne, the sky?
Ask Him, if your knotted scourges,
Matches, blood-extorting screws,
Are the means that duty urges
Agents of His will to use?

Hark! He answers,--wild tornadoes,
Strewing yonder sea with wrecks,
Wasting towns, plantations, meadows,
Are the voice with which He speaks.
He, foreseeing what vexations
Afric's sons should undergo,
Fixed their tyrants' habitation
Where his whirlwinds answer--No.

By our blood in Afric wasted,
Ere our necks received the chain;
By the miseries that we tasted,
Crossing in your barks the main;
By our suffering since ye brought us
To the man-degrading mart;
All, sustained by patience, taught us
Only by a broken heart.

Deem our nation brutes no longer,
Till some reason ye shall find
Worthier of regard, and stronger
Than the color of our kind.
Slaves of gold! whose sordid dealings
Tarnish all your boasted powers,
Prove that you have human feelings,
Ere you proudly question ours.
W. Cowper.

CLXXXVI.

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

Toll for the brave! the brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave, fast by their native shore!
Eight hundred of the brave, whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel, and laid her on her side.
A laud-breeze shook the shrouds, and she was overset;
Down went the Royal George, with all her crew complete!
Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought his work of glory done.
It was not in the battle; no tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak; she ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath, his fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down, with twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up, once dreaded by our foes,
And mingle with our cup the tear that England owes!
Her timbers yet are sound, and she may float again,
Full charged with England's thunder, and plow the distant main.
But Kempenfelt is gone, his victories are o'er;
And he and his eight hundred shall plow the waves no more.
W. Cowper.

CXXXVII.

SLAVERY.