Pursued a flying cloud, howling for water:
I crushed the withered herbs, and gnawed dry roots, Still crying, Water! water!-while the cliffs and caves, In horrid mockery, re-echoed "Water!”
The baked plain gaped for moisture,
And from its arid breast heaved smoke, that seemed
The breath of furnace-fierce, volcanic fire,
Or hot monsoon, that raises Syrian sands
To clouds. Amid the forests we espied
A faint and bleating herd. Sudden, a shrill
And horrid shout arose of-" Blood! blood! blood!"
We fell upon them with the tiger's thirst,
And drank up all the blood that was not human!
We were dyed in blood! Despair returned;
The cry of blood was hushed, and dumb confusion reigned.
Even then, when hope was dead!—past hope
I heard a laugh! and saw a wretched man
Rip his own veins, and bleeding, drink
With eager joy. The example seized on all :-
Each fell upon himself, tearing his veins,
Fiercely in search of blood! And some there were,
Who, having emptied their own veins, did seize
Upon their neighbors' arms, and slew them for their blood !---
"Rend, O ye lightnings! the sealed firmament,
And flood a burning world. Rain! rain! pour! pour!
Open ye windows of high heaven! and pour
The mighty deluge. Let us drown and drink
Luxurious death! Ye earthquakes, split the globe,
The solid rock-ribbed globe !—and lay all bare
Its subterranean rivers and fresh seas!"
Thus raged the multitude. And many fell
In fierce convulsion ;—many slew themselves.
And now, I saw the city all in flames-
The forest burning-and the very earth on fire!
I saw the mountains open with a roar
Loud as the seven apocalyptic thunders,
And seas of lava rolling headlong down,
Through crackling forests fierce, and hot as hell,
Down to the plain ;-I turned to fly and waked!
JOHN M. HARNEY
72. THOUGHTS IN A LIBRARY.
The first stanza, which is original, is prefixed to the beautiful ones that follow, as their meaning is not at the outset sufficiently apparent, without an introduction, for oratorical purposes.
Он! ye, who love sweet hours of thought,
Here seek these lofty domes,
Where some old fond librarian guards,
As treasures, ancient tomes.
Speak low-tread softly through these halls!
Here genius lives enshrined,
Here reign in silent majesty
The monarchs of the mind.
A mighty spirit-host they come
From every age and clime-
Above the buried wrecks of years
They breast the tide of time.
And in their presence-chamber here,
They hold their regal state,
And round them throng a noble train,
The gifted and the great.
Oh! child of toil! when round thy path
The storms of life arise;
And when thy brothers pass thee by
With stern, unloving eyes;
Here shall the Poets chant for thee
Their sweetest, loftiest lays,
And Prophets wait to guide thy steps
In wisdom's pleasant ways.
Come, with these God-anointed kings,
Be thou companion here;
And in the mighty realms of mind
Thou shalt go forth a Peer,
73. THE OLD MAN IN DECEMBER.
THEY call me old: they do not know
The thrill my heart receives,
When I hear the children's bounding feet
Go through the rustling leaves.
The sounds of happy laughter fall
In music on my ear;
And my spirit keeps the cadence while
The gray head turns to hear.
They mark, at times, a trembling tear,
And say I'm worn and old :
They do not know the healthful cheer
That keeps me blithe and bold.
These tottering limbs may faint and fail—
These scattering hairs be gray;
But I feel my mother's parting kiss
On my lips grow warm to-day!
I hear her breathe a burning prayer
For the boy that climbs her knee;
While the almond spreads its snowy star
O'er the halls of memory.»
"Tis a star of hope!-it leads me on,
And Faith her radiance gives,
To light me through the narrow way
To where my mother lives.
What though her grave be wide and deep,
O'er lands and seas away;
I know she's bending down from heaven
To cheer my heart to-day.
Oh! I'm not sad, though old and gray,
And worn with many a care :
My soul is warm in Christian love,
And strong in answered prayer.
In every bright and glorious thing
That God has made, I joy ;
I love the earth and heaven above,
As I did when a little boy.
ROME! oh, Rome, eternal city!
Who can gaze unmoved on thee?
Even Nature looks in pity
On thy fallen majesty.
Yet, not faithless to her duty,
Shedding o'er thee purple light,
Still she grants a dower of beauty
To thy ruins, day and night.
Still thy day is fair-but fairer,
Fairer far thy evening hour,
When the moon, night's queenly bearer,
Floats above yon mold'ring tower.
Is not this the hour to ponder?
Those dim vistas that we see, Do they not wake thoughts that wander On throughout eternity?
Pace the stern old Coliseum,
Slumbering 'neath that peaceful ray;
Listen to the far "Te Deum,"
Issuing from those cloisters gray;
Gaze upon yon lonely column,
Rising, spirit-like, on high,
Keeping there its vigil solemn,
By thy grave, past Italy!
Temple, shrine, and queenly bower,
Mantling ivy shrouds in gloom;
Wrapping, pall-like, haughty tower,
Regal pile, and sullen tomb.
More to tell were vain-were needless :
Who can choose but love this land?
Who can, of its beauties heedless,
Seek unmoved another strand?
There men dream of fallen splendor,
Ruins old and cloudless skies:
Fancy there her dreams may tender-
Here we have realities !
Oh! what noble feats of glory,
World-subduer, thou hast seen!
Gaze upon these ruins hoary--
Gaze, and think what Rome has been!
THERE is yon house that holds the parish poor,
Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door:
There, where the putrid vapors flagging play,
And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day,—
There children dwell, who know no parents' care--
Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there;
Heart-broken matrons, on their joyless bed;
Forsaken wives-and mothers never wed;
Dejected widows, with unheeded tears,
And crippled age, with more than childhood's fears:
The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest, they,
The moping idiot and the madman gay.
Here, too, the sick their final doom receive—
Here brought amid the scenes of grief to grieve;
Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow,
Mixed with the clamor of the crowd below:
Here sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan,
And the cold charities of man to man;
Whose laws, indeed, for ruined age provide,
And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride;
But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh,
And pride embitters what it can't deny!
Say, ye,-oppressed by some fantastic woes,
Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose,
Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance,
With timid eye, to read the distant glance;
Who, with sad prayers, the weary doctor tease,
To name the nameless, ever new disease;
Who, with mock patience, dire complaint endure,
Which real pain, and that alone, can cure,
How would ye bear, in real pain to lie,
Despised, neglected, left alone to die?
How would ye bear to draw your latest breath
Where all that's wretched paves the way for death?
|