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By the bodies, which lie all open to the sky, But when the bare and wintry woods we see, Tracking from Elbe to Rhine the tyrant's flight; | What then so cheerful as the holly-tree? By the widow's and the orphan's cry;
So scrious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng;
So would I seem amid the young and gay
More grave than they,
That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the holly-tree.
THE DEAD FRIEND.
Nor to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,
Descend to contemplate
The form that once was dear !
The spirit is not there
Which kindled that dead eye,
Which throbb’d in that cold heart,
Which in that motionless hand
Hath met thy friendly grasp. Open thine eyes !--too long hast thou been blind;
The spirit is not there! Take vengeance for thyself, and for mankind !
It is but lifeless, perishable flesh
That moulders in the grave;
Now to the elements
Resolved, their uses done.
Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, O READER! hast thou ever stood to see
Follow thy friend beloved;
The spirit is not there!
Often together have we talk'd of death ; Its glossy leaves
How sweet it were to see Order'd by an intelligence so wise,
All doubtful things made clear; As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.
How sweet it were with powers
Such as the Cherubim,
To view the depth of heaven!
O Edmund! thou hast first
Begun the travel of eternity!
I look upon the stars,
And think that thou art there, Smooth and unarm’d the pointless leaves appear.
Unfetter'd as the thought that follows thee. I love to view these things with curious eyes, And we have often said how sweet it were And moralize;
With unseen ministry of angel power, And in this wisdom of the holly-tree
To watch the friends we loved.
Edmund! we did not err!
ne, Sure I have felt thy presence! Thou hast given One which may profit in the after time.
A birth to holy thought, Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear
Hast kept me from the world unstain'd and pure. Harsh and austere,
Edmund! we did not err!
Our best affections here,
They are not like the toys of infancy; Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,
The soul outgrows them not; Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree.
We do not cast them off;
O, if it could be so, And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know,
It were indeed a dreadful thing to die! Some harshness show, All vain asperities I day by day
Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, Would wear away,
Follow thy friend beloved!
But in the lonely hour, Till the smooth temper of my age should be
But in the evening walk, Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree.
Think that he companies thy solitude ; And as, when all the summer trees are seen
Think that he holds with thee
And though remembrance wake a tear, Less bright than they ;
There will be joy in grief.
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.
“ Nay-nay-my little girl," quoth he, “It was a famous victory. « And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win.” “ And what good came of it at last ?”
Quoth little Peterkin. “ Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, “ But 'twas a famous victory."
The remembrance of youth is a sigh.-- Ali.
It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done
Was sitting in the sun,
Roll something large and round,
In playing there had found ;
Who stood expectant by;
And with a natural sigh,
For there's many here about; And often, when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men,” said he, Were slain in that great victory.” Now tell us what 't was all about,”
Young Peterkin he cries ; While little Wilhelmine looks up,
With wonder-waiting eyes; « Now tell us all about the war,
And what they kill'd each other for." « It was the English,” Kaspar cried,
“Who put the French to rout; But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out.
Yon little stream hard by ;
And he was forced to fly;
Was wasted far and wide ;
And new-born baby died;
At every famous victory.
After the field was won;
Lay rotting in the sun ;
After a famous victory. «Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good prince Eugene." “ Why, 't was a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine.
Max hath a weary pilgrimage
As through the world he wends;
Still discontent attends;
Upon the road before,
The days that are no more.
Torn from his mother's arms,
When novelty hath lost its charms? Condemn'd to suffer through the day
Restraints which no rewards repay, And cares where love has no concern, Hope lengthens as she counts the hours
Before his wish'd return.
In thought he loves to roam,
The comforts of his home.
Torment the restless mind; Where shall the tired and harass'd heart
Its consolation find ?
Life's summer prime of joy?
Its fabled bliss destroy ;
The careless days of Infancy.
And other thoughts come on,
Its generous warmth is gone;
The dull realities of truth;
The happy dreams of Youth.
With feeble step and slow;
That all is vanity below.
Life's vain delusions are gone by ;
Its idle hopes are o'er;
The days that are no more.
RODERICK IN BATTLE.
Count Julian's soldiers and the Asturian host Set up a shout, a joyful shout, which rung Wide through the welkin. Their exulting cry With louder acclamation was renew'd, When from the expiring miscreant's neck they saw That Roderick took the shield, and round his own Hung it, and vaulted in the seat. My horse! My noble horse! he cried, with flattering hand Patting his high-arch'd neck ! the renegade I thank him fort-hath kept thee daintily! Orelio, thou art in thy beauty still, Thy pride and strength! Orelio, my good horse, Once more thou bearest to the field thy lord, He who so oft hath fed and cherish'd thee, He for whose sake, wherever thou wert seen, Thou wert by all men honour'd. Once again Thou hast thy proper master! Do thy part As thou wert wont; and bear him gloriously, My beautiful Orelio,-to the lastThe happiest of his fields !--Then he drew forth The cimeter, and, waving it aloft, Rode toward the troops; its unaccustom'd shape Disliked him. Renegade in all things! cried The Goth, and cast it from him; to the chiefs Then said, If I have done ye service here, Help me, I pray you, to a Spanish sword! The trustiest blade that e'er in Bilbilis Was dipp'd, would not to-day be misbestowed On this right hand !-Go, some one,Gunderick cried, And bring Count Julian'ssword. Whoe'er thou art, The worth which thou hast shown avenging him Entitles thee to wear it. But thou guest For battle unequipp'd-haste there, and strip Yon villain of his armour! Late he spake, So fast the Moors came on. It matters not, Replied the Goth; there's many a mountaineer, Who in no better armour cased this day Than his wonted leathern gipion, will be found In the hottest battle, yet bring off untouch'd The unguarded life he ventures.—Taking then Count Julian's sword, he fitted round his wrist The chain, and eyeing the elaborate steel With stern regard of joy—The African Under unbappy stars was born, he cried, Who tastes thy edge !—Make ready for the charge! They come—they come !-On, brethren, to the
field !The word is, Vengeance !
Vengeance was the word; From man to man, and rank to rank it pass’d, By every heart enforced, by every voice Sent forth in loud defiance of the foe. The enemy in shriller sounds return'd Their Akbar and the prophet's trusted name. The horsemen lower'd their spears, the infantry, Deliberately, with slow and steady step, [hissid, Advanced; the bow-strings twang'd, and arrows
And javelins hurtled by. Anon the hosts Met in the shock of battle, horse and man (mace, Conflicting; shield struck shield, and sword, and And curtle-axe on helm and buckler rung; Armour was riven, and wounds were interchanged, And many a spirit from its mortal hold Hurried to bliss or bale. Well did the chiefs Of Julian's army in that hour support Their old esteem; and well Count Pedro there Enhanced his former praise; and by his side, Rejoicing like a bridegroom in the strife, Alphonso through the host of infidels Bore on his bloody lance dismay and death. But there was worst confusion and uproar, There widest slaughter and dismay, where, proud Of his recover'd lord, Orelio plunged Through thickest ranks, trampling beneath his feet The living and the dead. Where'er he turns, The Moors divide and fly. What man is this, Appall’d they say, who to the front of war Bareheaded offers thus his naked life? Replete with power he is, and terrible, Like some destroying angel! Sure his lips Have drank of Kaf's dark fountain, and he comes Strong in his immortality! Fly! fly! They said ; this is no human foe!-Nor less Of wonder fillid the Spaniards when they saw How flight and terror went before his way, And slaughter in his path. Behold, cries one, With what command and knightly ease he sits The intrepid steed, and deals from side to side His dreadful blows! Not Roderick in his power Bestrode with such command and majesty That noble war-horse. His loose robe this day Is death's black banner, shaking from its folds Dismay and ruin. Of no mortal mould Is he who in that garb of peace affronts Whole hosts, and sees them scatter where he turns! Auspicious Heaven beholds us, and some saint Revisits earth!
How beautiful is night! • A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain,
Breaks the serene of heaven :
Beneath her steady ray
The desert-circle spreads,
How beautiful is night!
Who, at this untimely hour,
· No station is in view, Nor palm-grove, islanded amid the waste.
The mother and her child,
They at this untimely hour,
And oh! what odours the voluptuous vale
Scatters from jasmine bowers,
From yon rose wilderness, From cluster'd henna, and from orange groves
That with such perfume fill the breeze,
As Peris to their sister bear, i When from the summit of some lofty tree She hangs, engaged, the captive of the Dives.
They from their pinions shake
And as her enemies impure
Inhales her fragrant food.
Went forth in heaven to roll
And after many a fight against the Moor
LISTENING TO STORMS.
"Tis pleasant, by the cheerful hearth, to hear Of tempests, and the dangers of the deep, And pause at times, and feel that we are safe ; Then listen to the perilous tale again, And with an eager and suspended soul, Woo terror to delight us; but to hear The roaring of the raging elements, To know all human skill, all human strength, Avail not; to look round and only see The mountain wave incumbent, with its weight Of bursting waters, o'er the reeling bark, O God, this is indeed a dreadful thing! And he who hath endured the horror once Of such an hour, doth never hear the storm Howl round his home, but he remembers it, And thinks upon the suffering mariner !
A SUB-MARINE CITY. Then golden summits in the noonday light, Shone o'er the dark-green deep that roll'd between ; For domes and pinnacles, and spires were seen
Peering above the sea-a mournful sight! Well might the sad beholder ween from thence
What works of wonder the devouring wave Had swallow'd there, when monuments so brave
Bore record of their old magnificence.
In solitude the ancient temples stood,
Now as the weary ages pass along, Hearing no voice save of the ocean flood, Which roars for ever on the restless shores ;
Or, visiting their solitary caves, The lonely sound of winds, that moan around,
Accordant to the melancholy waves.
CHILDHOOD OF JOAN OF ARC.
HERE in solitude My soul was nurst, amid the loveliest scenes Of unpolluted nature. Sweet it was, As the white mists of morning roll’d away, To see the mountains' wooded heights appear Dark in the early dawn, and mark its slope, Rich with the blossom'd furze, as the slant sun On the golden ripeness pour'd a deepening light. Pleasant, at noon, beside the vocal brook, To lie me down and watch the floating clouds, And shape to fancy's wild similitudes Their ever-varying forms; and ho, most sweet! To drive my flock at evening to the fold, And hasten to our little hut, and hear The voice of kindness bid me welcome home.
AN EASTERN EVENING. Evening comes on : arising from the stream, Homeward the tall flamingo wings his flight; And where he sails athwart the setting beam,
His scarlet plumage glows with deeper light. The watchman, at the wish'd approach of night,
Gladly forsakes the field, where he all day,
Hath borne the sultry ray.
The Bramin strikes the hour.
Like thunder far away.
THE LOCUST CLOUD.
Blend with all thoughts of gentleness and love.
ONWARD they came, a dark continuous cloud
Of congregated myriads numberless, The rushing of whose wings was as the sound
Of a broad river, headlong in its course Plunged from a mountain summit; or the roar
Of a wild ocean in the autumn storm,
Shattering its billows on a shore of rocks. Onward they came, the winds impell’d them on, Their work was done, their path of ruin past, Their graves were ready in the wilderness.
IMMORTALITY OF LOVE.
« Behold the mighty army!” Moath cried,
By the blind element.
And thin their spreading flanks, Rejoicing o'er their banquet! Deemest thou
The scent of water on some Syrian mosque Placed with priest-mummery, and the jargon-rites Which fool the multitude, hath led them here
From far Khorassan? Allah, who decreed Yon tribe the plague and punishment of man, These also hath he doom'd to meet their way:
Both passive instruments
Of his all-acting will,
They sin who tell us love can die.
All others are but vanity;
Earthly these passions of the earth, They perish where they have their birth;
But love is indestructible :
Its holy flame for ever burneth,
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
It here is tried and purified,
It soweth here with toil and care,
The babe she lost in infancy,
An over-payment of delight?
Thus having said, the pious sufferer sate, Beholding with fix'd eyes that lovely orb, Till quiet tears confused in dizzy light The broken moonbeams. They too by the toil Of spirit, as by travail of the day Subdued, were silent, yielding to the hour. The silver cloud diffusing slowly past, And now into its airy elements Resolved is gone; while through the azure depth Alone in heaven the glorious moon pursues Her course appointed, with indifferent beams Shining upon the silent hills around, And the dark tents of that unholy host, Who, all unconscious of impending fate, Take their last slumber there. The camp is still ; The fires have moulder'd, and the breeze which stirs The soft and snowy embers, just lays bare At times a red and evanescent light, Or for a moment wakes a feeble flame. They by the fountain hear the stream below, Whose murmurs, as the wind arose or fell, Fuller or fainter reach the ear attuned. And now the nightingale, not distant far, Began her solitary song; and pour'd To the cold moon a richer, stronger strain Than that with which the lyric lark salutes The new-born day. Her deep and thrilling song Seem'd with its piercing melody to reach The soul, and in mysterious unison
My days among the dead are pass'd;
Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old;
And seek relief in wo;
How much to them I owe,
My thoughts are with the dead; with them
I live in long-past years;
Partake their hopes and fears,
My hopes are with the dead; anon
My place with them will be, And I with them shall travel on
Through all futurity : Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust.