But wilt thou cure thine heart 'Tis deeper, sweeter, Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming And then alone, amid the beaming ARMINIUS. A spirited version of a dramatic scene in the second book of the Annals of Tacitus, by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. BACK, back;—he fears not foaming flood Go, earn Rome's chain to load thy neck, And blazon honour's hapless wreck But wouldst thou have me share the prey; By all that I have done, The Varian bones that day by day Lie whitening in the sun; Ho, call me here the wizard, boy, Of dark and subtle skill, To agonize but not destroy, To torture, not to kill. When swords are out, and shriek and shout Leave little room for prayer, No fetter on man's arm or heart Hangs half so heavy there. I curse him by the gifts the land I curse him by our country's gods, The breakers of the Roman rods, Oh, misery that such a ban But it is past!-where heroes press His brethren are the free. They come around :-one hour, and light Will fade from turf and tide, Then onward, onward to the fight, With darkness for our guide. To-night, to night, when we shall meet In combat face to face, Then only would Arminius greet The renegade's embrace. The canker of Rome's guilt shall be And as he lived in slavery, So shall be fall in shame. THE POWER OF SONG. Translated from the German of SCHILLER, by MERIVALE. A CATARACT from the clefts descending, He hears the roaring flood o'er-head, Leagued with those awful powers that wind His strains melodious who withstand? -As if into the round of pleasure, The stranger from the world unknown; Is mute and every mask falls down; Thus to the voice of Song awakening, Steps onward, armed with holy might; One with the immortals hovering o'er him, Whilst firm the minstrel's charm abideth, And-after hours of hopeless yearning, The pure delights of childhood's train, THE FISHERMAN'S SONG. This spirited Lyric appeared anonymously in an old Irish Magazine. AWAY-away o'er the feathery crest Of the beautiful blue are we : For our toil-lot lies on its boiling breast, And our wealth's in the glorious sea: And we've hymn'd in the grasp of the fiercest night, To the god of the sons of toil, As we cleft the wave by its own white light, And away with its scaly spoil. Then oh for the long and the strong oar-sweep For when children's weal lies in the deep, And we'll think, as the blast grows loud and long, And we'll think, as the surge grows tall and strong, And we'll reel through the clutch of the shiv'ring green, For the soothing smile of each heart's own queen, Then oh for the long and strong oar-sweep For when children's weal lies in the deep, hiss Do we yearn for the land, when toss'd on this? Than be singing farewell to the bold oar-sweep If our souls should bow to the savage deep, And if death, at times, through a foamy cloud, He can pay him his glance with a soul as proud And oh 'twere glorious, sure, to die, In our toils for some on shore, With a hopeful eye fix'd calm on the sky, Then oh for a long, strong, steady sweep; If our babes must fast till we rob the deep, HYMN FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION. CHRIST to the young man said: "Yet one thing more Sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor, And come and follow me." |