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But wilt thou cure thine heart
Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming
With folded eye;
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
Who fears not steel-clad line:—
No brother thou of mine.
Her gems to deck thy hilt;
With all the gauds of guilt.
But wouldst thou have me share the prey;
By all that I have done,
Lie whitening in the sun;
The eagle's shatter'd wing,
So scorn'd and mean a thing.
Ho, call me here the wizard, boy,
Of dark and subtle skill,
To torture, not to kill.
Leave little room for prayer,
Hangs half so heavy there.
I curse him by the gifts the land
Hath won from him and Rome,
Rent forest, blazing home.
The terrible, the dark,
The smiters of the bark.
Oh, misery that such a ban
On such a brow should be!
His country's chief to be?
The sharer of my fame,
And of a brother's name?
But it is past!—where heroes press
And cowards bend the knee, Arminius is not brotherless,
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,
The renegade's embrace.
Upon his dying name;
So shall be fall in shame.
THE POWER OF SONG. Translated from the German of Schiller, by Merivale.
A Cataract from the clefts descending,
It comes with thunder's mighty force,
And oaks uprooted track its course.
Entranced in soft voluptuous dread,
He hears the roaring flood o'er-head,
Leagued with those awful powers that wind
The thread of life—a silent band—
His strains melodious who withstand?
How, with the rod's hermetic spell,
Now plunges in the abyss of hell,
—As if into the round of pleasure,
All suddenly with giant stride,
Some dark prodigious fate should glide!
The stranger from the world unknown;
Is mute and every mask falls down;
Thus to the voice of Song awakening,
And, every hindrance vain forsaken,
One with the immortals hovering o'er him,
He seems to spurn this earthly ball;
And no dark destinies befall.
And—after hours of hopeless yearning,
And long exclusion's bitter smart,
The child springs to its mother's heart
The pure delights of childhood's train,
Song brings the wanderer home again,
THE FISHERMANiS SONG.
This spirited Lyric appeared anonymously in an old Irish Magazine.
Away—away o'er the feathery crest
Of the beautiful blue are we:
And our wealth's in the glorious sea:
To the god of the sons of toil,
Then oh for the long and the strong oar-sweep
We have given, and will again;
And we'll think, as the blast grows loud and long,
That we hear our offsprings' cries—
Of the tears in their mothers' eyes:
And we'll reel through the clutch of the shiv'ring green,
For the warm, warm clasp at home—
Then oh for the long and strong oar-sweep
Do we yearn for the land, when toss'd on this?
Let it ring to the proud one's tread:
Where the poor man gleans his bread.
Can bleed what, it may not bend, 'Twere better to battle the wildest wave, That the spirit of storms could send,
Than be singing farewell to the bold oar-sweep
We have given, and will again;
And if death, at times, through a foamy cloud,
On the brown-brow'd boatman glares,
As the form of a mortal bears:
In our toils for some on shore,
Then oh for a long, strong, steady sweep;
Hold to it—hurrah—dash on:
HYMN FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION.
Christ to the young man said: "Yet one thing more
If thou wouldst perfect be,
And come and follow me."