He, set perhaps upon the dunce's stool,
Crown'd with the paper night-cap of the fool,
In pettish mood now saunter'd o'er the green,
Too sad to mingle with the jocund scene;
Home to his mother straight he seem'd to go,
To tell the indulging parent all his woe,
And ask that medicine for a watery eye-
A butter'd cake till he forgot to cry.
Not so the rest, whose parents seem'd to approve
The master's admonition, rod, or love;
With them the task, and all its irksome care,
Was whirled with their bonnets in the air;
And as a plant confin'd, in some close room,
Nods o'er the flower-pot with a sickly bloom,
But placed abroad to imbibe the nursing dews,
Its blossoms glow with all their lovely hues;
So they, long pent within their silent seat,
Find health in play, and play itself more sweet.
Some shot the marble from the chalky ring,
While some with wooden bit and plaited string,
Well pleas'd, with trotting pace, ran round the course
In the strange fancy of a postboy's horse:
With groping hand by handkerchief made blind,
One tried to catch the followers behind;
With stones and turf some built the Trojan walls,
While through the air some toss'd the bounding balls;
Some tried the sailor's, some the mason's trade,
And some at pitch-and-toss with buttons play'd ;—
The master's frown, the strap with triple thong,
Were banish'd in the whistle and the song ;
And the hard lesson that employ'd the day,
Was now exchang'd for salutary play.
Oh, lovely age! in careless passions blest!
Of man's few years the happiest and the best!
No future thoughts disturb their youthful year—
Play all their hope, the master all their fear;
No wish have they for wealth's ambitious curse,
The fair-day penny fills their little purse;
No mad desire through glory's ranks to pass,
Their highest glory-general of the class!
Say, do the splendid pleasures that engage
The wiser state of man's maturer age,
Bestow such real, such intrinsic bliss,
As flows from youthful innocence like this?
Alas! the sweets which many a fool pursues,
Like Israel's quails, oft curse him as he chews;
While these not only luscious while they last,
Like Plato's feast, grow sweeter when they're past!
THE SPANISH MAIDEN'S GRAVE.
WHY is the Spanish maiden's grave
So far from her own bright land?
The sunny flowers that o'er it wave
Were sown by no kindred hand.
'Tis not the orange-bough that sends
Its breath on the sultry air;
'Tis not the myrtle-stem that bends
To the breeze of evening there;
But the rose of Sharon's eastern bloom
O'er the desart's slumberer fades;
And none but strangers pass the tomb
Which the palm of Judah shades.
And why hath sculpture, on the stone
Which guards that place of rest,
Blent with the cross, o'er a grave unknown,
A helm, a sword, a crest?
These are the trophies of a chief,
A lord of the axe and spear!
Some broken flower, some faded leaf,
Should mark a maiden's bier!
Scorn not her tomb!-deny not her
The emblems of the brave!
O'er that forsaken sepulchre
Banner and plume might wave.
She bound the steel, in battle tried,
Her woman's heart above,
And stood with brave men, side by side,
In the strength and faith of love.
That strength prevail'd, that faith was blest;
True was the javelin thrown ;
Yet pierced it not her warrior's breast,
She made its sheath her own:
And there she won, where heroes fell
In arms for the holy shrine,
A death which sav'd what she lov'd so well,
And a grave in Palestine.
And let the rose of Sharon spread
Its breast to the silent air.
And the palm of Judah lift its head
Green and immortal there!
And let yon grey stone, undefaced,
With its trophy mark the scene,
Telling the pilgrim of the waste
Where love and death have been!
HAIL to the morn that o'er thee beams,
Herald of days like those gone by!
Which o'er thy night of ages streams,
And breaks thy sleep of slavery!
Thy children's second birth we hail,
In tyrants' blood baptiz'd the Free!"
May such soon live but in the tale
Of what hath ceas'd to be!
Thy sons have cast their fetters by,
Have burst at last the iron chain;-
Accurst the nation that would try
To bind it on the brave again!
Though few-yet of the glorious band,
Who fight for death or freedom there,
The history of our native land
Forbids us to despair.
From out the ashes of thy dead,
Rekindles Freedom's hallow'd fire ;
From heart to heart her flame shall spread,
Like lightning o'er the electric wire.
Again she walks thy sunny shore,
Each former haunt, and fairy Isle ;
Thy Spirits from the stars once more,
On thee look down and smile!
Land of the everlasting song!
Voice of the dead that cannot die!
From sire to son which floats along
From rock to rock-as echoes fly!
Oh! thou wert never made for slaves,
Nor form'd for Tyranny to blast,
For Freedom's halo gilds thy graves,
The landmarks of the past!
"Land of my heart!" the Wanderer cries,
"Land of dark glens and mountains wild!
The storms that sweep thy lowering skies
Were music to thy child;
Ties, that may ne'er be form'd again,
Scenes, that on memory linger yet;
The heart that mourns in lonely pain
May break, but not forget.
"By many a pang that heart was tried,
Deceiv'd by many a hope that fled;
Yet still it rose with buoyant pride,
Unconquer'd, though it bled-
But lingering grief may quench the flame
That liv'd each storm of fortune through;
As the slow poison wastes the frame
No torture could subdue."
ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION.
And thou hast walk'd about (how strange a story!)
In Thebes's streets, three thousand years ago,
When the Memnonium was in all its glory,
And time had not begun to overthrow
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,
Of which the very ruins are tremendous ?
Speak! for thou long enough hast acted Dummy;
Thou hast a tongue-come let us hear its tune;
Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, Mummy!
"Revisiting the glimpses of the moon,"
Not like thin ghosts, or disembodied creatures,
But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features.
Tell us,-for doubtless thou canst recollect,
To whom should we assign the Sphynx's fame?
Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect
Of either Pyramid that bears his name?
Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer?
Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?
Perhaps thou wert a'mason, and forbidden
By oath to tell the mysteries of thy trade;
Then say what secret melody was hidden
In Memnon's statue, which at sun-rise play'd?
Perhaps thou wert a priest-if so, my struggles
Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.
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