'Neath misery's furrowing trace;
Toll for the hapless orphan left,
The last of all his race!
Yea, with thy heaviest knell,
From surge to rocky shore,
Toll for the living,--not the dead,
Whose mortal woes are o'er.
Toll, toll, toll!
O'er breeze and billow free;
And with thy startling lore instruct
Each rover of the sea.
Tell how o'er proudest joys
May swift destruction sweep,
And bid him build his hopes on high,--
Lone teacher of the deep!
Mrs. Sigourney.
CCXXX.
THE STRUGGLE FOR FAME.
If thou wouldst win a lasting fame,--
If thou the immortal wreath wouldst claim,
And make the future bless thy name,--
Begin thy perilous career,
Keep high thy heart, thy conscience clear,
And walk thy way without a fear.
And if thou hast a voice within,
That ever whispers, "Work and win,"
And keeps thy soul from sloth and sin;--
If thou canst plan a noble deed,
And never flag till it succeed,
Though in the strife thy heart should bleed;--
If thou canst struggle day and night,
And, in the envious world's despite,
Still keep thy cynosure in sight;--
If thou canst bear the rich man's scorn,
Nor curse the day that thou wert born
To feed on husks, and he on corn;--
If thou canst dine upon a crust,
And still hold on with patient trust,
Nor pine that fortune is unjust;--
If thou canst see, with tranquil breast,
The knave or fool in purple dressed,
Whilst thou must walk in tattered vest;--
If thou canst rise ere break of day,
And toil and moil till evening gray,
At thankless work, for scanty pay;--
If in thy progress to renown
Thou canst endure the scoff and frown
Of those who strive to pull thee down;--
If thou canst bear the averted face,
The gibe, or treacherous embrace,
Of those who run the self-same race;--
If thou in darkest days canst find
An inner brightness in thy mind,
To reconcile thee to thy kind:--
Whatever obstacles control,
Thine hour will come--go on--true soul!
Thou'lt win the prize, thou'lt reach the goal.
If not--what matters? Tried by fire,
And purified from low desire,
Thy spirit shall but soar the higher.
Content and hope thy heart shall buoy,
And men's neglect shall ne'er destroy
Thy secret peace, thy inward joy!
C. Mackay.
CCXXXI.
THE SAILOR-BOY'S DREAM.
In slumbers of midnight, the sailor-boy lay;
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind;
But watch-worn and weary his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.
He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn;
While memory stood sideways, half covered with flowers
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.
Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise--
Now, far, far behind him the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.
The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,
And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall;
All trembling with transport he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.
A father bends o'er him with looks of delight;
His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear,
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite
With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.
The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast;
Joy quickens his pulse--all hardships seem o'er,
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest--
"O God, thou hast blest me--I ask for no more."
Ah! what is that flame, which now bursts on his eye?
Ah! what is that sound which now larums his ear?
'T is the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky!
'T is the crash of the thunder, the groan of the sphere!
He springs from his hammock--he flies to the deck;
Amazement confronts him with images dire--
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck--
The masts fly in splinters--the shrouds are on fire!
O! sailor-boy! woe to thy dream of delight!
In darkness dissolves the gay frostwork of bliss--
Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright,
Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss!
O! sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again
Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay;
Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main,
Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay.
No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,
Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge;
But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be,
And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge.
On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid;
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.
Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll;
Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye--
O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul!
Dimond.
CCXXXII.
ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES.
Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are!
From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins,
That shrunk from the first touch of Liberty's war,
Be sucked out by tyrants or stagnate in chains!
On--on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales,
Ye locusts of tyranny!--blasting them o'er:
Fill--fill up their wide, sunny waters, ye sails,
From each slave-mart in Europe, and poison their shore.
May their fate be a mockword--may men of all lands
Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,
When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands,
Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls!
And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven,
Base slaves! may the whet of their agony be,
To think--as the damned haply think of the heaven
They had once in their reach,--that they might have been free.
Shame! shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat
Ever rose o'er the zero of Castlereagh's heart,
That did not, like Echo, your war-hymn repeat,
And send back its prayers with your Liberty's start!
Good God! that in such a proud moment of life,
Worth ages of history--when, had you but hurled
One bolt at your bloody invader, that strife
Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world!
That then--O, disgrace upon manhood! e'en then
You should falter--should cling to your pitiful breath,
Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men,
And prefer a slave's life to a glorious death!
It is strange!--it is dreadful! Shout, Tyranny, shout
Through your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er"--
If there lingers one spark of her fire, tread it out,
And return to your empire of darkness once more.
For if such are the braggarts that claim to be free,
Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss,
Far nobler to live the brute-bondman of thee,
Than sully even chains by a struggle like this.
T. Moore.
CCXXXIII.
THE BATTLE HYMN OF THE BERLIN LANDSTURM.
Father of earth and heaven! I call thy name!
Round me the smoke and shout of battle roll;
Mine eyes are dazzled with the rustling flame;
Father, sustain an untried soldier's soul.
Or life, or death, whatever be the goal
That crowns or closes round this struggling hour,
Thou knowest, if ever from my spirit stole
One deeper prayer, 't was that no cloud might lower
On my young fame!--O hear! God of eternal power!
Now for the fight--now for the cannon-peal--
Forward--through blood, and toils and cloud, and fire!
Glorious the shout, the shock, the crash of steel,
The volley's roll, the rocket's blasting spire;
They shake--like broken waves their squares retire,--
On, hussars!--Now give them rein and heel;
Think of the orphaned child, the murdered sire;--
Earth cries for blood--in thunder on them wheel!
This hour to Europe's fate shall set the triumph-seal!
Körner.
CCXXXIV.
THE MAIN TRUCK, OR A LEAP FOR LIFE.
Old Ironsides at anchor lay
In the harbor of Mahon;
A dead calm rested on take bay,--
The waves to sleep had gone;
When little Hal, the Captain's son,
A lad both brave and good,
In sport, up shroud and rigging ran,
And on the main truck stood!
A shudder shot through every vein,--
All eyes were turned on high!
There stood the bop with dizzy brain,
Between the sea and sky;
No hold had he above, below;
Alone he stood in air:
To that far height none dared to go;--
No aid could reach him there.
We gazed,--but not a man could speak!
With horror all aghast,
In groups, with pallid brow and cheek,
We watched the quivering mast.
The atmosphere grew thick and hot,
And of a lurid hue;--
As riveted unto the spot,
Stood officers and crew.
The father came on deck:--he gasped,
"Oh God! Thy will be done!"
Then suddenly a rifle grasped,
And aimed it at his son:
"Jump, far out, boy into the wave!
Jump, or I fire!" he said;
"That only chance your life can save!
Jump, jump, boy!" He obeyed.
He sunk, he rose, he lived,--he moved,--
And for the ship struck out.
On board, we hailed the lad beloved,
With many a manly shout.
His father drew, in silent joy,
Those wet arms round his neck--
Then folded to his heart his boy,
And fainted on the deck.
G. P. Morris.
CCXXXV.
CATILINE ON HIS BANISHMENT FROM ROME.
Banished from Rome! What's banished, but set free,
From daily contact of the things I loathe?
"Tried and convicted traitor!"--Who says this?
Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head?
Banished?--I thank you for 't. It breaks my chain!
I held some slack allegiance till this hour;
But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords;
I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes,
Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs,
I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
To leave you in your lazy dignities.
But here I stand and scoff you: here I fling
Hatred and full defiance in your face.
Your consul's merciful. For this all thanks.
He dares not touch a hair of Catiline.
"Traitor!" I go but I return. This trial!--
Here I devote your senate! I've had wrongs,
To stir a fever in the blood of age,
Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel.
This day's the birth of sorrows!--This hour's work
Will breed proscriptions. Look to your hearths, my lords;
For there henceforth shall sit, for household gods,
Shapes hot from Tartarus!--all shapes and crimes;
Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn;
Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup;
Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe,
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones;
Till anarchy comes down on you like Night,
And massacre seals Rome's eternal grave!
G. Croly.
CCXXXVI.
APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar;
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean--roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin--his control
Stops with the shore!--upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields
Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction, thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth:--there let him lay.
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into the yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee--
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy watery wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts:--not so thou,
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play--
Time writes no wrinkle on thy azure brow--
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests: in all time,
Calm or convulsed--in breeze, or gale or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving;--boundless, endless, and sublime--
The image of Eternity--the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
Lord Byron.
CCXXXVII.
BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
There was a sound of revelry by night;
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;--
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it?--No: 't was but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street:
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet--
But, hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! Arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and crumblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which never might be repeated. Who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar--
And near, the beat of the alarming drum,
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;--
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips--"The foe! they come! they come!"
And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose!
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard--and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:--
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring, which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years:
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,--
Over the unreasoning brave,--alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow,
In its next verdure; when this fiery mass
Of living valor, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life;
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay;
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife;
The morn, the marshalling in arms; the day,
Battle's magnificently-stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover,--heaped and pent,
Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent!
Lord Byron.
CCXXXVIII.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strewn.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still.
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances uplifted, the trumpet unknown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Lord Byron.
CCXXXIX.
SPEECH OF MOLOCH.
My sentence is for open war. Of wiles,
More inexpert, I boast not; them let those
Contrive who need, or when they need, not now;
For, while they sit contriving, shall the rest,
Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait
The signal to ascend, sit lingering here,
Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place
Accept this dark, opprobrious den of shame,
The prison of his tyranny, who reigns
By our delay? No; let us rather choose,
Armed with hell-flames and fury, all at once,
O'er heaven's high towers to force resistless way,
Turning our tortures into horrid arms
Against the torturer; when, to meet the noise
Of his almighty engine, he shall hear
Infernal thunder, and for lightning, see
Black fire and horror shot with equal rage
Among his angels,--and his throne itself,
Mixed with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire,
His own invented torments.
But, perhaps,
The way seems difficult and steep to scale,
With upright wing, against a higher foe.
Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench
Of that forgetful lake benumb not still,
That in our proper motion we ascend
Up to our native seat; descent and fall
To us adverse. Who but felt of late,
When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear
Insulting, and pursued us through the deep,
With what compulsion and laborious flight,
We sunk thus low? The ascent is easy then;
The event is feared.
Should we again provoke
Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find
To our destruction; if there be in hell,
Fear to be worse destroyed. What can be worse
Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned
In this abhorred deep to utter woe;
Where pain of unextinguishable fire
Must exercise us without hope of end,
The vassals of his anger, when the scourge
Inexorable, and the torturing hour
Calls us to penance? More destroyed than thus
We should be quite abolished and expire.
What fear we then? what doubt we to incense
His utmost ire? which to the height enraged,
Will either quite consume us, and reduce
To nothing this essential (happier far,
Than miserable, to have eternal being,)
Or, if our substance be indeed divine,
And cannot cease to be, we are at worst
On this side nothing; and by proof we feel
Our power sufficient to disturb his heaven,
And with perpetual inroads to alarm,
Though inaccessible, his fatal throne;
Which, if not victory--is yet Revenge.
Milton.
CCXL.
ANTONY'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears:
I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interréd with their bones:
So let it be with Cæsar, The noble Brutus
Hath told you, Cæsar, was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Cæsar, answered it.
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest,
(For Brutus is an honorable man;
So are they all, all honorable men),
Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious,
And Brutus is an honorable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Cæsar, seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Cæsar, hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,
And Brutus is an honorable man.
You all did see, that, on the Lupercal,
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,
And, sure, he is an honorable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason! Bear with me:
My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
But yesterday the word of Cæsar, might
Have stood against the world; now lies he there,
And none so poor to do him reverence.
O Masters! if I were disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honorable men.
I will not do them wrong; I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,
Than I will wrong such honorable men:
But here's a parchment, with the seal of Cæsar,--
I found it in his closet; 't is his will.
Let but the commons hear this testament
(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read),
And they, would go and kiss dead Cæsar's, wounds,
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,
Unto their issue.--
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle; I remember
The first time ever Cæsar, ever put it on;
'T was on a summer's evening in his tent;
That day he overcame the Nervii.--
Look! In this place ran Cassius's dagger through:
See what a rent the envious Casca made:
Through this, the well-belovéd Brutus stabbed;
And as he plucked his curséd steel away,
Mark, how the blood of Cæsar, followed it!--
This was the most unkindest cut of all!
For when the noble Cæsar, saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquished him! Then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey's statue,
Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar, fell.
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I and you, and all of us, fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.
O, now you weep; and I perceive you feel
The dint of pity:--these are gracious drops.
Kind souls! what, weep you when you but behold
Our Cæsar, vesture wounded? Look ye here!
Here is himself--marred, as you see, by traitors.
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny!
They that have done this deed are honorable!
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,
That made them do it! They are wise and honorable,
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts:
I am no orator, as Brutus is;
But as you all know me, a plain, blunt man,
That love my friend; and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him.
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men's blood:--I only speak right on;
I tell you that which you yourselves do know;
Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor, dumb mouths,
And bid them speak for me. But, were I Brutus,
And Brutus, Antony, there were an Antony,
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Cæsar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny!
Shakespeare.
CCXLI.
HAMLETS SOLILOQUY.