He ruled their sports in the setting sun,
Nor gave a thought to the missing one.
"Are ye ready?" cried Death, as he raised his dart. "Nay! nay!" shrieked the father; "in mercy depart!"
The friend again was quaffing the bowl,
Warmly pledging his faith and soul;
His bosom cherished with glowing pride
A stranger form that sat by his side;
His hand the hand of that stranger pressed;
He praised his song, he echoed his jest ;
And the mirth and wit of that new-found mate
Made a blank of the name so prized of late.
"See! see!" cried Death, as he hurried past,
"How bravely the bonds of friendship last!"
But the orphan child! Oh, where was she?
With clasping hands and bended knee,
All alone on the church-yard's sod,
Mingling the names of mother and God.
Her dark and sunken eye was hid,
Fast weeping beneath the swollen lid;
Her sigh was heavy, her forehead was chill,
Betraying the wound was unhealed still;
And her smothered prayer was yet heard to crave
A speedy home in the self-same grave.
Hers was the love all holy and strong;
Hers was the sorrow fervent and long;
Hers was the spirit whose light was shed
As an incense fire above the dead.
Death lingered there, and paused awhile;
But she beckoned him on with a welcoming smile.
"There's a solace," cried she, "for all others to find,
But a mother leaves no equal behind.”
And the kindest blow Death ever gave
Laid the mourning child in the parent's grave.
He burst through the ice-pillared gates of the north,
And away on his hurricane wings he rushed forth;
He exulted all free in his might and his speed,
He mocked at the lion and taunted the steed;
He whistled along, through each cranny and creek;
He whirled o'er the mountains with hollow-toned shriek;
The arrow and eagle were laggard behind,
And alone in his flight sped the King of the Wind.
He swept o'er the earth the tall battlements fell,
And he laughed, as they crumbled, with maniac yell;
The broad oak of the wood dared to wrestle again,
Till, wild in his fury, he hurled it in twain;
He grappled with pyramids, works of an age,
And dire records were left of his havoc and rage.
No power could brave him, no fetters could bind;
Supreme in his sway was the King of the Wind.
He careered o'er the waters with death and despair, He wrecked the proud ship and his triumph was there The cheeks that had blanched not at foeman or blade At the sound of his breathing turned pale and afraid;
He rocked the stanch lighthouse, he shivered the mast, He howled- the strong life-boat in fragments was cast; And he roared in his glory, "Where, where will ye find A despot so great as the King of the Wind!”
WHOм do we crown with the laurel leaf?
The hero god, the soldier chief,
But we dream of the crushing cannon-wheel,
Of the flying shot and the reeking steel,
Of the crimson plain where warm blood smokes,
Where clangor deafens and sulphur chokes :
Oh, who can love the laurel wreath,
Plucked from the gory field of death?
Whom do we crown with summer flowers?
The young and fair in their happiest hours.
But the buds will only live in the light
Of a festive day or a glittering night;
We know the vermil tints will fade
That pleasure dies with the bloomy braid:
And who can prize the coronal
That's formed to dazzle, wither, and fall?
Who wears the cypress, dark and drear?
The one who is shedding the mourner's tear:
The gloomy branch for ever twines
Round foreheads graved with sorrow's lines.
'Tis the type of a sad and lonely heart,
That hath seen ts dearest hopes depart.
Oh, who can like the chaplet band
That is wove by Melancholy's hand?
Where is the ivy circlet found?
On the one whose brain and lips are drowned
In the purple stream who drinks and laughs
Till his cheeks outflush the wine he quaffs.
Oh, glossy and rich is the ivy crown,
With its gems of grape-juice trickling down;
But, bright as it seems o'er the glass and bow
It has stain for the heart and shade for the sou.
But there's a green and fragrant leaf
Betokens nor revelry, blood, nor grief:
'Tis the purest amaranth springing below,
And rests on the calmest, noblest brow:
It is not the right of the monarch or lord,
Nor purchased by gold, nor won by the sword;
For the lowliest temples gather a ray
Of quenchless light from the palm of bay.
Oh, beautiful bay! I worship thee
I homage thy wreath - I cherish thy tree
And of all the chaplets Fame may deal,
'Tis only to this one I would kneel;
For as Indians fly to the banian branch,
When tempests lower and thunders launch,
So the spirit may turn from crowds and strife,
And seek from the bay-wreath joy and life.
WHEN I gave to old Dobbin his song and his due
Apollo I feared would look scornfully blue;
I thought he might spurn the low station and blood,
And turn such a Pegasus out of his stud.
But another "four-footed" comes boldly to claim
His place beside Dobbin in merits and fame;
He shall have it, for why should I be over nice,
Since Homer immortalized Ilion and mice?
I frolicked a youngling, wild, rosy, and fat,
When Pincher was brought in the butcher-boy's hat;
And the long-promised puppy was hailed with a joy
That ne'er was inspired by a gold-purchased toy.
"What a darling!" cried I; while my sire, with a frown,
Exclaimed, "Hang the brute! though 'tis easy to drown:"
But I wept at the word, till my sorrowful wail
Won his total reprieve from the rope or the pail.
Regarding his beauty, I'm silent: forsooth,
I've a little old-fashioned respect for the truth;
And the praise of his color or shape to advance
Would be that part of history known as romance.
There were some who most rudely denounced him a
How I hated that name, though I dared not demur
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