Break away boldly from Sleep's leaden chain; Rather, with vigor and resolute nerve, Up, up, to bless man, and thy Master to serve, The offering of prayer, and the incense of praise! Gird thee, and do thy watching well, Sloth and Slumber never had part In the warrior's will, or the patriot's heart; ADVENTURE. How gladly would I wander through some strange and savage land, The lasso at my saddle bow, the rifle in my hand, A leash of gallant mastiffs bounding by my side, And for a friend to love, the noble horse on which I ride! Alone, alone-yet not alone, for God is with me there, Without a guide,-yet guided well,-young, buoyant, fresh and free, Without a road,—yet all the land a highway unto me,— Or, brushing through the copse, from his leafy home I start Nor stop,-until my dogs have brought the glorious brute to bay. Or, if the gang of hungry wolves come yelling on my track, I make my ready rifle speak, and scare the cowards back; Or, if the lurking leopard's eyes among the branches shine, A touch upon the trigger-and his spotted skin is mine! And then the hunter's savory fare at tranquil eventide,— Hist! hist! I heard some prowler snarling in the wood; I seized my knife and trusty gun, and face to face we stood! The Grizzly Bear came rushing on,—and, as he rush'd, he fell! Hie at him, dogs! my rifle has done its duty well! Hie at him, dogs! one bullet cannot kill a foe so grim; Ha-ha! it splits his iron heart, and drinks the ruddy life! Frantic struggles-welling blood-the strife is almost o’er,- So shall we beard those tyrants in their dens another day, For lo, the God of battles has help'd us in the fight! THE SONG OF SIXTEEN. WHO shall guess what I may be? For, bravest and brightest that ever was sung Hope, with her prizes and victories won, All the meadows and hills are green, My heart, my heart within me swells, Rich in the present, though poor in the past, Pleasures are there, like drooping balms, Away with your counsels, and hinder me not,— FORTY. Ан, poor youth! in pitiful truth, Haply, within a few swift years, A mind bowed down with troubles and fears, The commonest drudge of men and things, Instead of your-conquering heroes and kings: Haply, to follies an early wreck, For the cloud of presumption is now like a speck, And with a whelming, sudden sweep The storm of temptation roars over the deep; Lower the sails of pride, rash youth,— Stand to the lowly tiller of truth; Quick! or your limber bark shall be The sport of the winds on a stormy sea. Care and peril in lieu of joy, Guilt and dread may be thine, proud boy: Lo, thy mantling chalice of life Is foaming with sorrow, and sickness, and strife; Cheated by pleasure, and sated with pain,- -It is well. I discern a tear on thy cheek: It is well, thou art humble, and silent, and meek: Now, courage again! and, with peril to cope, Gird thee with vigor, and helm thee with hope! For life, good youth, hath never an ill The free-spreading wings of a cheerful mind. THE SONG OF SEVENTY. I AM not old,-I cannot be old, I am not old; though friends and foes And left me alone to my joys or my woes, I am not old,—I cannot be old, Though tottering, wrinkled, and grey; Though my eyes are dim, and my marrow is cold, Call me not old to-day. |