And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; The tumult of each sacked and burning village, The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; The soldier's revels in the midst of pillage; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade. Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, [these, With such accursed instruments as Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices. And jarrest the celestial harmonies? Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need for arsenals nor forts : The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ! And every nation, that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain! Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!" Peace; and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise. TO A CHILD. DEAR child! how radiant on thy mother's knee, With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, Thou gazest at the painted tiles, With many a grotesque form and face, With what a look of proud command Thousands of years in Indian seas Those silver bells Reposed of yore As shapeless ore, Far down in the deep-sunken wells And thus for thee, O little child, Himself as swift and wild, But, lo! thy door is left ajar! Some source of wonder and surprise! The four walls of thy nursery That won thy little beating heart Thou strugglest for the open door. Through these once solitary halls Once, ah, once, within these walls, But what are these grave thoughts to Out, out! into the open air! Thy only dream is liberty, Thou carest little how or where. I see thee eager at thy play, nest, From which the laughing birds have taken wing, By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. Dream-like the waters of the river gleam; A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, O child! O new-born denizen As at the touch of Fate! Into those realms of love and hate, Now shouting to the apples on the Into that darkness blank and drear, tree, With cheeks as round and red as they ; As restless as the bee. And see at every turn how they efface [ants. By some prophetic feeling taught, Freighted with hope and fear; These hapless Troglodytes of thy The shadowy disk of future years; realm!" And yet upon its outer rim, A luminous circle faint and dim, A prophecy and intimation, rest. And if a more auspicious fate. Of the great army of the poor, Nor to thyself the task shall be As great Pythagoras of yore, smote The anvils with a different note, Vibrant on every iron tongue, Enough! I will not play the Seer; THE NORMAN BARON. "Dans les moments de la vie où la réflexion devient plus calme et plus profonde, où l'intérêt et l'avarice parlent moins haut que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de maladie, et de péril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de posséder des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agréable à Dieu, qui avait créé tous les hommes son image."-THIERRY, Conquête de l'Angleterre IN his chamber, weak and dying, Was the Norman baron lying; [dered, Loud, without, the tempest thun And the castle turret shook. In this fight was death the gainer, From the missal on his knee; In the hall, the serf and vassal [sail; Held, that night, their Christmas wasMany a carol, old and saintly, Sang the minstrels and the waits. And so loud these Saxon gleemen Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, That the storm was heard but faintly, Knocking at the castle-gates. Till at length the lays they chaunted Reached the chamber terror-haunted, Where the monk, with accents holy, Whispered at the baron's ear. Tears upon his eyelids glistened, As he paused a while and listened, And the dying baron slowly Turned his weary head to hear. "Wassail for the kingly stranger Born and cradled in a manger! King, like David, priest, like Aaron, Christ is born to set us free!" And the lightning showed the sainted Figures on the casement painted, And exclaimed the shuddering baron, "Miserere, Domine !" |