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Is't death to fall for Freedom's right?
He's dead alone that lacks her light! «
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight
The sword he draws: What can alone ennoble fight?
A noble cause!
Give that! and welcome War to brace
Her drums I 'and rend Heaven's reeking space!
The colours planted face to face,
The charging cheer,
Though death's pale horse lead on the chase,
Shall still be dear.
And place our trophies where men kneel
To Heaven! but Hi aven rebukes my zeal!
The cause of Truth and human weal,
O God above!
Transfer it from the sword's appeal
To Peace and Love.
Peace, Love! the cherubim, that join
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine,
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine,
Where they are not—
The heart alone can make divine
To incantations dost thou trust,
Ahd pompous rites in domes august?
See mouldering stones and metal's rust
Belie the vaunt,
That men can bless one pile of dust
With chime or chaunt.
The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man!
Thy temples—creeds themselves grow wan!
But there's a dome of nobler span,
A temple given
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban—
Its space is Heaven!
Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling,
Where trancing the rapt spirit's feeling,
And God himself to man revealing,
The harmonious spheres
Make music, though unheard their pealing
By mortal ears.
Fair stars! are not your beings pure?
Can sin, can death your worlds obscure?
Else why so swell the thoughts at your
Ye must be Heavens that make us sure
Of heavenly love!
And in your harmony sublime
I read the doom of distant time;
That man's regenerate soul from crime
Shall yet be drawn,
And reason on his mortal clime
What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birth
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!
Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth
Earth's compass round:
And your high priesthood shall make earth
All Hallowed Ground.
A. If I do this what further can I do?
B. Why, more than ever. Every task thou dost
Brings strength and capability to act.
He who doth climb the difficult mountain's top,
Will the next day outstrip an idler man.
Dip thy young brain in wise men's deep discourse,—
In books, which though they freeze thy wit awhile,
Will knit thee, i' the end, with wisdom.
The bread-tree, which, without the ploughshare, yields
The unreap'd harvest of unfurrow'd fields,
And bakes its unadulterated loaves
Without a furnace in unpurchased groves,
And flings off famine from its fertile breast,
A priceless market for the gathering guest.
Adam's Description Of Eve.
When I approach
Her loveliness, so absolute she seems
And in herself complete, so well to know
Her own, that what she wills to do or say,
Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best,
All higher knowledge in her presence falls
Degraded, wisdom, in discourse with her
Loses discountenanced, and like folly shows;
Authority and reason on her wait,
As one intended first, not after made
Occasionally; and to consummate all,
Greatness of mind, and nobleness their seat
Build in her loveliest, and create an awe
About her, as a guard angelic placed.
Now, what a sullen-blooded fool was this,
At sulks with earth and Heaven! Could he not
Out-weep his passion like a blustering day,
And be clear-skied thereafter?
Light from the sod the lark exulting springs,
Joy tunes his voice and animates his wings:
Bard of the blushing dawn, to him are given
Earth's choicest verdure, and the midway heaven:
Hark! the glad strains that charm our wond'ring ears
As upward still the minstrel fearless steers,
'Till wide careering through the solar stream
A speck, he wanders on the. morning beam.
A DUTCH GIRL SKATING.
Now straight in course as star that shoots
By night down Autumn skies serene,
Now like a swallow at its play,
• » * # *
The maiden takes her homeward way.
Her young face glows, her eye is bright,
Her limbs are full of one delight;
From parted lips the happy breath
Before her floats in silvery wreath.
She meets the wind in joy and pride,
Like one that swims against the tide;
She meets the wind—abroad she flings
Her heart and soul upon its wings.
Now Music feedeth on the silent air,—
Like Ocean, who upon the moonlight shores
Of lone Sigasum, steals with murmuring noise,—
Devouring the bright sands and purple slopes,
And so, content, retires :—yet music leaves
Her soul upon the silence, and our hearts
Hear, and for ever hoard those golden sounds,
And reproduce them sweet in alter hours.
In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse
Upon the days gone by—to act in thought
Past seasons o'er, and be ajiain a child.
To sit, in fancy, on the turf-clad slope,
Down which the child would roll,
To pluck gay flowers;—
Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand
(Childhood offended soon, soon reconcil'd)
Would throw away, and straight take up again,
Then fling them to the winds; and up the lawn
Bound, with so playful and so light a step,
That the press'd daisy scarce declined her head.
THE LOST WIFE.
By J. F. Mukeay, a name unknown to us, but worthy of being better known.
Loire, by my solitary hearth,
Whence peace hath fled,
And home-like joys and innocent mirth
Silent and sad, I linger to recall
The memory of all
In thee, dear partner of my cares, I lost;
Cares, shared with thee, more sweet than joys the world
My home—why did I say my home!
Now have I none,
Unless thou from the grave again couldst come,
My home was in thy trusting heart,
Where'er thou wert;
My happy home in thy confiding breast,
Where my worn spirit refuge found and rest.
I know not if thou wast most fair
And best of womankind;
Or whether earth yet beareth fruits more rare
Of heart and mind;
To Me, I know, thou wert the fairest,
That heaven to man in mercy ever pave,
And more than man from heaven deserved to have.
Never from thee, sweet wife,
Came word or look awry,
Nor peacock pride, nor sullen fit, nor strife
Calm and controlled thy spirit was, and sure
So to endure:
My friend, protectress, guide, whose gentle will
Compelled my good, withholding from me ill.