196

POEMS, TALES, AND SONGS.

“Is that all they come with ?" The answer was "No! With cordage of steel they have bound

The fair form of Freedom, and with a dread blow 'T is stretched at thy feet on the ground!”

“What more do they offer? my worshippers bold; What sacrifice sacred beside ?"

"Wealth! wealth!" was the answer,

gold!

A right royal, high-rolling tide!"

66 A river

""T is well! and what else do the devotees bring?"

The answer was, "Fortune the fair!

And Hope for the future-a joy-jewelled thing,
Yet offer'd as freely as air!"

"What more do the worshippers offer—what more?”
"Their Happiness!" was the reply;
"And never, thou war-god, O, never before,
Was thy store of treasure so high!"

But still, diving deeper,—And what else? he said,

Like one in rich ruins who delves;

And Pride, from the red reeking gaps of the dead, Made answer" THEY OFFER THEMSELVES!

Still the war-god saith to his servant, Pride;
To his servant, Ambition, saith he,
“Shout yet for my worshippers, far and wide,
And draft them out hither to me!"

POEMS, TALES, AND SONGS.

197

So Pride and Ambition compel them to come ;—
Like thunder that pealeth afar,

With blast of the trumpet and roll of the drum,
They wend to the worship of war."

PART IV.

It was thus that one of the bright band sung,
At the golden close of the day;

But the light went down and a darkness hung
O'er the west as he closed the lay:

And the angel of pity peer'd over the steep,
While his tears like the night-dew fell;
But, so hot was the war in the western deep,
Those tears might have dropp'd in hell.

But tell us, Where lingered the beautiful band—
The spirits with golden wings?

And tell us the name of the favour'd land,
Where each, at the sunset, sings?

The spot where they linger'd, in fair array,
Is the centre of earthly rest;

The people with whom they prefer to stay,
Are dwellers in Britain the Blest!

But the angel of pity, who over the steep
Look'd down on the West afar,

With his harp beside him, could only weep,
As he witness'd the wanton war.

Yet they who had come from the shining spheres,—

Who but to be young were born,—
They whisper'd, "Behold! for a glory appears,
In might from the land of morn!"

The sun had gone down as one goeth to rest,
With the peace of a well-spent day;

And the shadows had woven a veil for the West,
Where a cloud-cradled solemness lay;
And the wind was held as one holds his breath,
When wonders in whispers are told;

As perfect the peace as the silence of death,
Or the quiet of ages of old.

But who are the shining ones, sweetly fair,
Now waiting on golden plumes ?
And what the vision of glory in air,
That brightly the night illumes ?
O, those are the spirits of light benign,
That freely as day-beams come;
And this, the vision of Truth divine-
The hope of the freeman's home.

And there they listened—that angel band—
With their plumes of splendour furl❜d,
In the holy light of the earth's best land,—
The happiest land in the world!

They heard-from many a shining sphere,

The circle of young and fair,-

A song celestial, sweetly clear,

In the truth-illumin'd air.

O who could have dream'd in the days long past,
That spirits so bright would come,

And after wide wandering, would at the last,
Here settle in singing-at home!

Yet the band of bright spirits that round the world Went forth on the wings of day,

Their plumes in the land of their choice have furl'd, And shall they not welcomely stay?

THE BIRD-NEST IN THE LING.

FORSAKEN and alone it lies

Forsaken in the snows;

Above it coldly bend the skies,

Storm wildly round it blows;
Yet was it, not long since, a neat-
A safely-sheltered thing,

And sweet bloom fringed the fair retreat—

The bird-nest in the ling.

What hour, aforetime, met the morn,

The warbling of the bird,

Are now, along the scene forlorn,

Sounds wild and mournful heard;

For wind and rain to hill and plain,
The strains of wailing bring,

But joy will visit yet again
The bird-nest in the ling.

O heart, that like the bird-nest lone,
Dost now forsaken lie,

And hearest but the tempest tone
Between thee and the sky,
Will gold of joy thy hopes regild,
And beauty freshly bring?
Why not,-if little birds rebuild
The lone nest in the ling?

THE BURDEN IN THE BREAST.

WHO bears his burden on his back,

Will surely weary grow,
Like traveller without a track

O'er houseless hills of snow;

Home reached, however, all his cares
Are lost in lightsome rest ;-
How otherwise with him who bears
His burden in his breast!

Who on his shoulder lays his load,
The same betimes may shift;
Or find a friend along the road
To aid him with a lift;