Why does she give her ivy-vine To glory's shade an ampler span! Still o'er thy temples and thy shrines, Though all thy oracles be dumb, Still, Egypt, tower thy sepulchres Which hearse the thousand bones Still frowns, by shattering years unrent, By monarchs crowned, by shepherds trod, They were the mighty of the world, The demigods of earth; Their breath the flag of blood unfurled, And gave the battle birth; They lived to trample on mankind, And in their ravage leave behind The impress of their worth: And wizard rhyme, and hoary song, Hallowed their deeds and hymned their wrong. But thou, mild benefactor-thou, To whom on earth were given The sympathy for others' woe, The charities of heaven;- To tell that thou hast striven, They live not in the sepulchre In which thy dust is hid, Though there were kindlier hands to rear Thy simple pyramid, Than Egypt's mightiest could command---A duteous tribe, a peasant band Who mourned the rites they did— Mourned that the cold turf should confine A spirit kind and pure as thine! They are existent in the clime Thy pilgrim-steps have trod, Where Justice tracks the feet of Crime, Are thy memorials in the skies, The portals of thy paradise. Thine was an empire o'er distress, To burst the bonds of wretchedness, Thy name, through every future age, By bard, philanthropist, and sage, In glory shall be shrined! Whilst other NIELDS and CLARKSONS Show That still thy mantle rests below. I know not if there be a sense The pitying tear, the sorrowing sigh, Might grace an angel's heart; And e'en when sickness damped thy brow, Such bliss was thine, and such wert thou! Serene, unhurt, in wasted lands, Long stood'st thou as the traveller stands, Flowers bloom, trees wave the verdant leaf, He looks-the green, the blossomed bough But deadlier than the simoom burns The fire of Pestilence; His shadow into darkness turns The passing of events: Where points his finger,―lowers the storm; Where his eye fixes, -feeds the worm On people and on prince! Where treads his glory lies; Where breathes his breath, there beauty dies! And to the beautiful and young Thy latest cares were given; How spake thy kind and pitying tongue The messages of heaven! Soothing her grief who, fair and frail, Waned paler yet, and yet more pale, Smit by the livid Plague, which cast As danger deeper grew and dark, One pang at parting-'t was the last— To track the source from whence it came, The nodding hearse, the sable plume, The artificial grief or gloom Are pageants which but hide Hearts, from the weight of anguish free: But there were many wept for thee Who wept for none beside, And felt, thus left alone below, And many mourned that thou should'st lie And blend with Pontic waves; A land whose sons were slaves; Crouching, and fettered to the soil By feudal chains and thankless toil! But oft, methinks, in future years, And see her offered roses showered Those roses on their languid stalk Which, mingled with the laurel's stem, Or pity cease the heart to swell — THE BREEZE FROM THE SHORE. BY MRS. HEMANS. Joy is upon the lonely seas When Indian forests pour Oh! welcome are the winds that tell Where far away the jasmines dwell, Blessed, on the sounding surge and foam, The sailor at the helm they meet, Upspringing, 'midst the waves, to greet Back to her glorious bowers again. |