Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:
He, with viny crown, advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed;
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempé's vale, her native maids,
Amid the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round-
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amid his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.
41. THE GREEK AND TURKMAN. - Rev. George Croly.
Description of a night attack, by Constantine Palæologus, on a detached camp of Mohammed II., during the siege of Constantinople.
THE Turkman lay beside the river ;
The wind played loose through bow and quiver;
The charger on the bank fed free,
The shield hung glittering from the tree,
The trumpet, shawn, and atabal,
Lay screened from dew by cloak and pall,
For long and weary was the way
The hordes had marched that burning day.
Above them, on the sky of June,
Broad as a buckler glowed the moon,
Flooding with glory vale and hill.
In silver sprang the mountain rill;
The weeping shrub in silver bent;
A pile of silver stood the tent;
All soundless, sweet tranquillity;
All beauty,— hill, brook, tent, and tree.
There came a sound — 't was like the gush
When night-winds shake the rose's bush!
Of wolves along the valley's bed!
There came a sound-'t was like the flow
Of rivers swoln with melting snow!
There came a sound 't was like the roar
Of Ocean on its winter shore!
"DEATH TO THE TURK!" up rose the yell
On rolled the charge-a thunder peal!
The Tartar arrows fell like rain,
They clanked on helm, and mail, and chain:
In blood, in hate, in death, were twined
Savage and Greek, mad, bleeding, -blind,
And still, on flank, and front, and rear,
Raged, Constantine, thy thirsting spear!
- — —
Brassy and pale, a type of doom,——
Labored the moon through deepening gloom.
Down plunged her orb 't was pitchy night!
Now, Turkman, turn thy reins for flight!
On rushed their thousands in the dark!
But in their camp a ruddy spark
Like an uncertain meteor reeled,
Thy hand, brave king, that fire-brand wheeled!
Wild burst the burning element
O'er man and courser, flood and tent!
And through the blaze the Greeks outsprang,
Like tigers, bloody, foot and fang!-
With dagger-stab, and falchion-sweep,
Delving the stunned and staggering heap,
Till lay the slave by chief and khan,
And all was gone that once was man!
O, THE wrath of the Lord is a terrible thing!
Like the tempest that withers the blossoms of spring,
Like the thunder that bursts on the summer's domain,
It fell on the head of the homicide Cain.
And, lo! like a deer in the fright of the chase,
With a fire in his heart, and a brand on his face,
He speeds him afar to the desert of Nod,
A vagabond, smote by the vengeance of God!
All nature, to him, has been blasted and banned,
And the blood of a brother yet reeks on his hand;
And no vintage has grown, and no fountain has sprung,
For cheering his heart, or for cooling his tongue.
The groans of a father his slumber shall start,
And the tears of a mother shall pierce to his heart,
And the kiss of his children shall scorch him like flame,
When he thinks of the curse that hangs over his name.
And the wife of his bosom — the faithful and fair —
Can mix no sweet drop in his cup of despair;
For her tender caress, and her innocent breath,
But stir in his soul the hot embers of death.
And his offering may blaze unregarded by Heaven;
And his spirit may pray, yet remain unforgiven;
And his grave may be closed, yet no rest to him bring;
O, the wrath of the Lord is a terrible thing!
43. AMERICA, 1750.- Bishop Berkeley. Born, 1684; died, 1753.
THE Muse, disgusted at an age and clime
Barren of every glorious theme,
In distant lands now waits a better time,
Producing subjects worthy fame.
In happy climes, where from the genial sun,
And virgin earth, such scenes ensue,
The force of art by nature seems outdone,
And fancied beauties by the true :
In happy climes, the seat of innocence,
Where Nature guides, and Virtue rules,
Where men shall not impose, for truth and sense,
The pedantry of courts and schools:
There shall be another golden age,
The rise of empire and of arts,
The good and great inspiring epic rage,
The wisest heads and noblest hearts.
Not such as Europe breeds in her decay,
Such as she bred when fresh and young,
When heavenly flame did animate her clay, —
By future poets shall be sung.
Westward the course of empire takes its way;
The four first acts already past,
A fifth shall close the drama with the day;
Time's noblest offspring is the last.
44. THE WORLD FOR SALE. — Rev. Ralph Hoyt.
THE world for sale! Hang out the sign;
Call every traveller here to me;
Who 'll buy this brave estate of mine,
And set this weary spirit free?
'Tis going! yes, I mean to fling
The bauble from my soul away;
I'll sell it, whatsoe'er it bring:
The world at auction here, to-day!
It is a glorious sight to see,
But, ah! it has deceived me sore;
It is not what it seems to be.
For sale! it shall be mine no more.
Come, turn it o'er and view it well;
I would not have you purchase dear.
"T is going! going! I must sell!
Who bids? who 'll buy the splendid tear?
Here's wealth, in glittering heaps of gold;
Who bids? But let me tell
A baser lot was never sold!
Who 'll buy the heavy heaps of care?
And, here, spread out in broad domain,
A goodly landscape all may trace,
Hall, cottage, tree, field, hill and plain ;
Who 'll buy himself a burial place?
Here's Love, the dreamy potent spell
That Beauty flings around the heart;
I know its power, alas! too well;
'T is going! Love and I must part!
Must part?
What can I more with Love?
All over 's the enchanter's reign.
Who 'll buy the plumeless, dying dove, -
A breath of bliss, a storm of pain?
And, Friendship, rarest gem of earth;
Who e'er hath found the jewel his?
Frail, fickle, false and little worth,
Who bids for Friendship
as it is?
'Tis going! going! hear the call;
Once, twice and thrice, 't is very low!
"T was once my hope, my stay, my all,
But now the broken staff must go!
Fame! hold the brilliant meteor high;
How dazzling every gilded name!
Ye millions! now 's the time to buy.
How much for Fame? how much for Fame?
Hear how it thunders! Would you stand
On high Olympus, far renowned,
Now purchase, and a world command!
And be with a world's curses crowned.
Sweet star of Hope! with ray to shine
In every sad foreboding breast,
Save this desponding one of mine, -
Who bids for man's last friend, and best?
Ah, were not mine a bankrupt life,
This treasure should my soul sustain!
But Hope and Care are now at strife,
Nor ever may unite again.
Ambition, fashion, show and pride,
I part from all forever now;
Grief, in an overwhelming tide,
Has taught my haughty heart to bow.
By Death, stern sheriff! all bereft,
I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod;
The best of all I still have left, -
My Faith, my Bible, and my God!
45. ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL TAYLOR.— Robert T. Conrad.
WEEP not for him! The Thracians wisely gave
Tears to the birth-couch, triumph to the grave.
Weep not for him! Go, mark his high career;
It knew no shame, no folly, and no fear.
Nurtured to peril, lo! the peril came,
To lead him on, from field to field, to fame.
Weep not for him whose lustrous life has known
No field of fame he has not made his own!
In many a fainting clime, in many a war,
Still bright-browed Victory drew the patriot's car.
Whether he met the dusk and prowling foe
By oceanic Mississippi's flow;
Or where the Southern swamps, with steamy breath,
Smite the worn warrior with no warrior's death!
Or where, like surges on the rolling main,
Squadron on squadron sweep the prairie plain,-
Dawn and the field the haughty foe o'erspread ;
Sunset and Rio Grandé's waves ran red!
Or where, from rock-ribbed safety, Monterey
Frowns death, and dares him to the unequal fray;
Till crashing walls and slippery streets bespeak
How frail the fortress where the heart is weak;
How vainly numbers menace, rocks defy,
Men sternly knit, and firm to do or die;
Or where on thousands thousands crowding rush
(Rome knew not such a day) his ranks to crush,
The long day paused on Buena Vista's height,
Above the cloud with flashing volleys bright,
Till angry Freedom, hovering o'er the fray,
Swooped down, and made a new Thermopyla ;-
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