"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made!" And he fashioned the first plowshare! And men, taught wisdom from the past, In friendship joined their hands; Hung the sword in the hall, and the spear on the wall, Our staunch good friend is he; But while oppression lifts its hand, Though we may thank him for the plow, CHARLES MACKAY. LXXII. -THE BEAUTIFUL. WALK with the Beautiful and with the Grand; I hear thee say, "The Beautiful! what is it?" O, thou art darkly ignorant! 'Tis no long, weary road, its form to visit, For thou canst make it smile beside thy door. Ay, love it; 't is a sister that will bless, And teach thee patience when thy heart is lonely; And thou art made a little lower only: Some boast its presence in a Grecian face; Then seek it every where ! Thy bosom is its mint; the workmen are Thy thoughts, and they must coin for thee. Believing The Beautiful exists in every star, Thou mak'st it so; and art thyself deceiving, If otherwise thy faith. I'll teach thee miracles. Walk on this heath, One thing I warn thee: bow no knee to gold; And they who keep their best affections young ADIEU! adieu! My native shore fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, and shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea we follow in his flight; Farewell a while to him and thee: my native land, good-night! A few short hours, and he will rise to give the morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies, but not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall, my dog howls at the gate. Come hither, hither, my little page! why dost thou weep and wail? Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; our ship is swift and strong: Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly more merrily along. "Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high! I fear not wave nor wind; Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I am sorrowful in mind; For I have from my father gone, a mother whom I love, And have no friend save these alone, but thee and One above. My father blessed me fervently, yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh till I come back again." Enough, enough, my little lad! such tears become thine eye; If I thy guileless bosom had, mine own would not be dry. Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman! why dost thou look so pale? Or dost thou dread a French foeman, or shiver at the gale? "Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak: But, thinking on an absent wife will blanch a faithful cheek. The 7 in this word is unsounded, and the a has the sound of a in fall. THE FATE OF THE FRIENDLESS. 381 "My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, along the bordering lake ; And now I'm in the world alone, upon the wide, wide sea : my sight, Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves! My native land, good-night! BYRON. LXXIV. THE FATE OF THE FRIENDLESS. My life is like the summer rose, That opens to the morning sky, to die; But ere the shades of evening close My life is like the autumn leaf That trembles in the moon's pale ray; Restless, and soon to pass away; Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; All trace will vanish from the sand; On that lone shore loud moans the sea R. H. WILDE. LXXV. — LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM. FROM life without freedom, say, who would not fly? In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains And, O! even if Freedom from this world be driven, In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains, T. MOORE. LXXVI. WAR THE GAME OF TYRANTS. HARK! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock! Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done; For, on this morn, three potent nations meet To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; BELIEF IN A FUTURE STATE. Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies; Are met as if at home they could not die- And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. There shall they rot- Ambition's honored fools! The broken tools, that tyrants cast away Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? 383 BYRON. LXXVII. - BELIEF IN A FUTURE STATE. O! LIVES there, Heaven, beneath thy dread expanse, Who, mouldering earthward 'reft of every trust, And call this barren world sufficient bliss? |