Spangles of the ore of silver, Which with playful singing mouth, Thou hast leaped on high to pilfer?
Mournful Wave! I deemed thy song Was telling of a floating prison, Which when tempests swept along, And the mighty winds were risen, Foundered in the ocean's grasp,
While the brave and fair were dying. Wave! didst mark a white hand clasp In thy folds as thou wert flying?
Hast thou seen the hallowed rock,
Where the pride of kings reposes, Crowned with many a misty lock, Wreathed with samphire green and roses? Or with joyous playful leap
Hast thou been a tribute flinging
Up that bold and jutting steep,
Pearls upon the south wind stringing?
Faded Wave! a joy to thee
Now thy flight and toil are over!
Oh! may my departure be
Calm as thine, thou ocean rover! When this soul's last joy or mirth On the shore of time is driven, Be its lot like thine on earth, To be lost away in heaven.
AWAY! away! I will not hear
Of aught but death or vengeance now;
By the eternal skies, I swear
My knee shall never learn to bow! I not hear a word of peace,
or grasp in friendly grasp a hand, Linked to the pale-browed stranger race, That work the ruin of our land.
Before their coming, we had ranged Our forests and our uplands free; Still let us keep unsold, unchanged, The heritage of liberty.
As free as roll the chainless streams, Still let us roam our ancient woods; As free as break the morning beams, That light our mountain solitudes.
Touch not the hand they stretch to you; The falsely proffered cup, put by; Will you believe a coward true?
Or taste the poison draught to die? Their friendship is a lurking snare, Their honor but an idle breath;
Their smile-the smile that traitors wear; Their love is hate, their life is death.
Plains which your infant feet have roved, Broad streams you skimmed in light canoe, Green woods and glens your fathers loved- Whom smile they for, if not for you? And could your fathers' spirits look
From lands where deathless verdure waves, Nor curse the craven hearts that brook To barter for a nation's graves!
Then raise once more the warrior song, That tells despair and death are nigh; Let the loud summons peal along, Rending the arches of the sky. And till your last white foe shall kneel, And in his coward pangs expire— Sleep-but to dream of brand and steel, Wake-but to deal in blood and fire!
THE Roman sentinel stood helmed and tall Beside the gate of Nain. The busy tread Of comers in the city mart was done, For it was almost noon, and a dead heat Quivered upon the fine and sleeping dust, And the cold snake crept panting from the wall
To bask his scaly circles in the sun. Upon his spear the soldier leaned and kept His drowsy watch, and as his waking dream Was broken by the solitary foot
Of some poor mendicant, he raised his lids, To curse him for a tributary Jew,
And slumberously dozed on.
"T was now high noon.
The dull, low murmur of a funeral
Went through the city-the sad sound of feet Unmixed with voices-and the sentinel Shook off his slumber, and gazed earnestly Up the wide street along whose paved way A mourning throng wound slowly. They came on, Bearing a body heavily on its bier,
And by the throng that in the burning heat
Walked with forgetful sadness-'t was of one Mourned with uncommon sorrow. The broad gate Swung on its hinges, and the Roman bent His spear-point downwards as the bearers passed Bending beneath their burden. There was one- Only one mourner. Close behind the bier, Crumpling the pall up in her withered hands, Followed an aged woman. Her slow steps Faltered with weakness, and a broken moan Fell from her lips, thickened convulsively As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd Followed apart, but no one spoke to her— She had no kinsmen. She had lived alone— A widow with one son. He was her all-
The only tie she had in the wide world— And this was he. They could not comfort her.
Jesus drew near to Nain as from the gate The funeral came forth. His lips were pale With the noon's fainting heat. The beaded sweat Stood on his forehead, and about the worn And simple latchets, of his sandals lay Thick the white dust of travel. He had come Since sunrise from Capernaum, staying not, To wet his lips at green Bethsaida's pool, Nor turn him southward upon Tabor's side To catch Gilboa's light and spicy breeze. Genesareth stood cool upon the East, Fast by the sea of Galilee, and there The weary traveller would rest till eve: And on the alders of Bethulia's plains The grapes of Palestine hung ripe and wild; Yet turned he not aside, but gazing on From every swelling mount, beheld afar Amid the hills the humble spires of Nain, The place of his next errand; and the path Touched not Bethulia, and a league away Upon the East lay breezy Galilee.
He thought but of his work. And ever thus With godlike self-forgetfulness he went Through all his missions-healing sicknesses Where'er he came, and never known to weep But for a human sorrow, or to stay
His feet but for some pitying miracle.
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