The German knight the lance has bravely broken
By lofty Schreckenstein;
The German maid the tale of love has spoken
Beside the flowery Rhine,
With patriot zeal the gallant Swiss is fired,
Beside that stream of thine;
The dull Batavian, on thy banks inspired,
Shouts,-Freedom! and the Rhine!-
And shall we fear the threat of foreign foeman ?—
Though Europe should combine,-
The fiery Frank, the Gaul, the haughty Roman,
Found graves beside the Rhine.-
Germania's sons, fill, fill your foaming glasses
With Hochheim's sparkling wine,
And drink,-while life, and love, and beauty passes,—
Be blessings on the Rhine!
THE DYING GLADIATOR.
WILL then no pitying sword its succour lend
The Gladiator's mortal throes to end?
To free the' unconquer'd mind, whose generous power
Triumphs o'er nature in her saddest hour!
Bow'd low, and full of death, his head declines,
Yet o'er his brow indignant valour shines;
Still glares his closing eye with angry light,
Now glares, now darkens, with approaching night.
Think not with terror heaves that sinewy breast,—
'Tis vengeance visible, and pain suppress'd;
Calm in despair, in agony sedate,
His proud soul wrestles with o'ermastering fate;
That pang the conflict ends!-he falls not yet,
Seems every nerve for one last effort set,
At once by death, death's lingering power to brave,
He will not sink, but plunge into the grave;
Exhaust his mighty heart in one last sigh,
And rally life's whole energy to die!
Unfear'd is now that cord which oft ensnared
The baffled rival whom his falchion spared;
Those clarions mute, which on the murderous stage
Roused him to deeds of more than martial rage;
Once poised by peerless might, once dear to fame,
The shield which could not guard, supports his frame;
His fix'd eye dwells upon the faithless blade,
As if in silent agony he pray'd:-
"Oh might I yet, by one avenging blow,
Not shun my fate, but share it with my foe!"
Vain hope! the streams of life-blood fast descend,
That giant arm's upbearing strength must bend;
Yet shall he scorn, procumbent, to betray
One dastard sign of anguish or dismay;
With one weak plaint to shame his parting breath,
In pangs sublime, magnificent in death!
But his were deeds unchronicled; his tomb
No patriot wreathes adorn, to cheer his doom;
No soothing thoughts arise of duties done,
Of trophied conquests for his country won;
And he, whose sculptured form gave deathless fame
To Ctesilas-he dies without a name!
Haply to grace some Cæsar's pageant pride
The hero-slave or hireling champion died;
When Rome, degenerate Rome, for barbarous shows
Barter'd her virtue, glory, and repose;
Sold all that freemen prize as great and good,
For pomp of death, and theatres of blood!
THE DEATH OF THE POET SHELLEY.
THE clouds were gathering red and dark,
And the big rain dropp'd heavily:
The Poet leap'd into his bark,
And straight put forth to sea.
They watch'd him from the foamy shore,
As the waves broke on his prow:
They never thought to see him more;
They shrank to see him now.
But he had nothing of their dread;
He valued not his mortal breath,
Save that within his soul it bred
Such thoughts as know not death.
His joy was in all wondrous forms,
Alike of beauty and of fear;
In love or ire, in calms or storms,
He still was in his sphere.
But most of all was his delight
In Nature's works of wonderment; And oft at the cold dead of night, Thus o'er the floods he went.
He went to hear the wild winds howl,
In fierce expectance of their prey;
Like a lean herd of wolves that prowl
About the traveller's way.
He went to listen to the fall
Of the huge breakers' white cascade,
Now rising on the billowy wall,
Now underneath it laid:
DEATH OF THE POET SHELLEY,
To see the storm-flash fright the gloom,
And the thick shades a moment sever;
He went to hear the sea-knell boom,-
He went, and went for ever.
The tempest and its wrath were gone,
But he return'd not with the calm;
They look'd for him from morning's dawn,
Till evening's hour of balm.
And hope still linger'd, when at last
One slow wave roll'd upon the strand
A broken helm, a shiver'd mast;
And then his fate was scann'd.
They knew him dead, yet they should ne'er
Have seen the death-gloom on his face.
Why did they seek,-to find him there,
In the worm's foul embrace?
They did not hide him in the earth,
Half of his form even now was clay;
And those who loved him from his birth,
Turn'd sickening thence away.
But on the beach a funeral fire,
Just when the tide was down, they lit;
Then laid the corpse upon its pyre,
And the flames kindled it.
There were pale cheeks and throbbing eyes
Around, too full to shed a tear;
And there were those mute, heaving sighs
We rather see than hear.
His scatter'd ashes they inurn'd,
And each sad friend to his own door
In deepest thoughtfulness return'd,
But spake of him no more.
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS
AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.
The standard of Count Pulaski, the noble Pole who fell in the attack upon Savannah, during the American Revolution, was of crimson silk, embroidered by the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem, in Pennsylvania.
WHEN the dying flame of day,
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head,
And the censer burning swung,
Where before the altar hung
That proud banner, which with prayer
Had been consecrated there.
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,
Sung low in the dim mysterious aisle.
Take thy banner-may it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave,
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the sabbath of our vale,-
When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,-
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.
Take thy banner!-and beneath
The war-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it-till our homes are free-
Guard it-God will prosper thee!
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
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