YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. YE mariners of England! The battle and the breeze: Your glorious standard launch again, And sweep through the deep, The spirit of your fathers Britannia needs no bulwark, Her march is o'er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak The meteor flag of England Till danger's troubled night depart, In both from age to age, thou didst. rejoice, They were thy chosen music, Liberty! There came a tyrant, and with holy glee Thou foughtst against him, but hast vainly striven; Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft: Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left; For, high-souled maid, what sorrow would it be That mountain floods should thunder as before, And ocean bellow from his rocky shore, And neither awful voice be heard by thee! WORDSWORTH. SONNET. ALAS! what boots the long, laborious quest Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill; Or pains abstruse, to elevate the will, And lead us on to that transcendent rest Where every passion shall the sway attest Of Reason, seated on her sovereign hill? What is it but a vain and curious skill, If sapient Germany must lie depressed Beneath the brutal sword? Her haughty schools Shall blush; and may not we with sorrow say, A few strong instincts and a few plain rules, Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought More for mankind at this unhappy day, Than all the pride of intellect and thought. WORDSWORTH. 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; 'twas 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! Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain: he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings 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 ne'er 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, Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, No drum-beat from the wall, No morning gun from the black forts' embrasure, Awaken with their call! No more, surveying with an eye impartial The long line of the coast, Shall the gaunt figure of the old fieldmarshal Be seen upon his post! For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, The rampart wall has scaled! He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, The dark and silent room; And, as he entered, darker grew, and deeper The silence and the gloom. He did not pause to parley, or dissemble, But smote the warden hoarAh! what a blow! that made all England tremble And groan from shore to shore. Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, The sun rose bright o'erhead, Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated That a great man was dead! THE LOST LEADER. I. JUST for a handful of silver he left us; Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat; Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote. They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, We shall march prospering, -not through his presence; Songs may inspirit us, not from Still bidding crouch whom the Blot out his name, then, - record One task more declined, one more foot-path untrod, One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! Life's night begins; let him never come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain, Forced praise on our part, the glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning again! Best fight on well, for we taught him, strike gallantly, Aim at our heart ere we pierce through his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in Heaven, the first by the throne! ROBERT BROWNING. WESTWARD the course of Empire The four first acts already past, Time's noblest offspring is the last. ENTRANCE OF COLUMBUS Lo! on his far-resounding path On his advancing prow. GRENVILLE MELLEN. INDIANS. |