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?