And yet, my father wrong'd,
Insulted by a blow-the proud old man,
Who fourscore years has kept his fame unblurr'd,
Now to be so disgraced, and no redress !—
It drowns all other cries!
Love's shrieking woe, and Mercy's pleading voice!
Thus, thus! I cast them off-poor suppliants!
And now, Gonzalez ! for revenge and thee!
Christ Walking on the Water.-Mrs. Hemans.
FEAR was within the tossing bark,
When stormy winds grew loud,
And waves came rolling high and dark,
And the tall mast was bow'd.
And men stood breathless in their dread,
And baffled in their skill-
But one was there, who rose, and said
To the wild sea-be still!
And the wind ceased--it ceased!-that word
Pass'd through the gloomy sky;
The troubled billows knew their Lord,
And fell beneath His eye.
And slumber settled on the deep,
And silence on the blast;
They sank, as flowers that fold to sleep
When sultry day is past.
Oh! thou, that in its wildest hour
Didst rule the tempest's mood,
Send thy meek spirit forth in power
Soft on our souls to brood.
Thou that didst bow the billow's pride
Thy mandate to fulfill,
Oh! speak to passion's raging tide,
Speak, and say, Peace, be still!
Wallenstein's Reflections on hearing of the Death of young Piccolomini.-SCHILLER.
He, the more fortunate! yea, he hath finish'd!
For him there is no longer any future.
His life is bright-bright without spot it was,
And cannot cease to be. No ominous hour
Knocks at his door with tidings of mishap.
Far off is he, above desire and fear;
No more submitted to the change and chance
Of the unsteady planets. Oh, 'tis well
With him! but who knows what the coming hour,
Veil'd in thick darkness, brings for us?
This anguish will be wearied down, I know;
What pang is permanent with man?
As from the vilest thing of every day,
He learns to wean himself: for the strong hours
Conquer him. Yet I feel what I have lost
In him. The bloom is vanish'd from my life.
For Oh! he stood beside me, like my youth,—
Transform'd for me the real to a dream,
Clothing the palpable and the familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn!
Whatever fortunes wait my future toils,
The beautiful is vanish'd—and returns not.
Farewell to Life.—KORNER.
My deep wound burns ;--my pale lips quake in death;
I feel my fainting heart resign its strife,
And reaching now the limit of my life,
Lord, to thy will I yield my parting breath!
Yet many a dream hath charm'd my youthful eye,
And must life's fairy visions all depart?
Oh, surely no! for all that fired my heart
To rapture here, shall live with me on high.
And that fair form that won my earliest vow,
That my young spirit prized all else above,
And now adored as freedom, now as love,
Stands in seraphic guise, before me now;
And as my failing senses fade away,
It beckons me on high, to realms of endless day!
Tallien's Denunciation of Robespierre.-COLERIDGE.
OPPRESSION falls. The traitor stands appall'd-
Guilt's iron fangs engrasp his shrinking soul-
He hears assembled France denounce his crimes!
He sees the mask torn from his secret sins-
He trembles on the precipice of fate.
Fall'n, guilty tyrant! Murder'd by thy rage,
How many an innocent victim's blood has stain'd
Fair Freedom's altar! Sylla-like, thy hand
Mark'd down the virtuous, that, thy foes removed,
Perpetual Dictator thou might'st reign,
And tyrannize o'er France, and call it freedom!
Long time in timid guilt the traitor plann'd
His fearful wiles-success embolden'd sin-
And his stretch'd arm had grasp'd the diadem
Ere now, but that the coward's heart recoil'd,
Lest France, awaked, should rouse her from her dream,
And call aloud for vengeance. He, like Cæsar,
With rapid step urged on his bold career,
Even to the summit of ambitious power,
And deem'd the name of king alone was wanting.
Was it for this we hurl'd proud Capet down?
Is it for this we wage eternal war
Against the tyrant horde of murderers,
The crowned vipers, whose pernicious venom
Infects all Europe? was it then for this
We swore to guard our liberty with life,
That Robespierre should reign? The spirit of freedom
Is not yet sunk so low. The glowing flame
That animates each honest Frenchman's heart,
Not yet extinguish'd! I invoke thy shade,
Immortal Brutus! I too wear a dagger;
And, if the representatives of France,
Through fear or favour, should delay the sword
Of justice, Tallien emulates thy virtues ;
Tallien, like Brutus, lifts the avenging arm;
Tallien shall save his country!
The Song of the Forge.-ANON.
CLANG, clang,
The massive anvils ring:
Clang, clang,
A hundred hammers swing;
Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky,
The mighty blows still multiply.
Say, brothers of the dusky brow,
What are your strong arms forging now?
Clang, clang!-we forge the coulter now,
The coulter of the kindly PLOUGH;
Sweet Mary mother, bless our toil!
May its broad furrow still unbind
To genial rains, to sun and wind,
The most benignant soil.
Clang, clang!-our coulter's course shall be
On many a sweet and sheltered lea;
By many a streamlet's silver tide;
Amidst the song of morning birds,
Amidst the low of sauntering herds,
Amidst soft breezes which do stray
Through woodbine hedges in sweet May,
Along the green hill's side.
When regal Autumn's bounteous hand
With wide-spread glory clothes the land,
When to the valleys from the brow
Of each resplendent slope is rolled,
A ruddy stream of living gold,—
We bless, we bless the plough!
Clang, clang!-again, my mates, what glows
Beneath the hammer's potent blows?
Clink, clank!-we forge the giant CHAIN,
Which bears the gallant vessel's strain
'Midst stormy winds and adverse tides;
Secured by this, the good ship braves
The rocky roadstead, and the waves
Which thunder on her sides.
Anxious no more, the merchant sees
The mist drive dark before the breeze,
The storm-cloud on the hill;
Calmly he rests, though far away,
In boisterous climes, his vessels lay,
Reliant on our skill.
Say, on what sands these links shall sleep,
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep:
By Afric's pestilential shore,
By many an iceberg, lone and hoar,
By many a palmy western isle,
Basking in Spring's perpetual smile;
By stormy Labrador.
Say, shall they feel the vessel reel,
When to the battery's deadly peal
The crashing broadside makes reply;
Or else, as at the glorious Nile,
Hold grappling ships, that strive the while
For death or victory?
Hurrah!-cling, clang!-once more, what glows, Dark brothers of the forge, beneath
The iron tempest of your blows,
The furnace's red breath?
|