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THE MARINER'S SONG.
Yet, laugh not in your carnival of crime
Too proudly, ye oppressors ! Spain was free! Her soil has felt the footprints, and her clime
Been winnowed by the wings of Liberty ;
And these, even parting, scatter, as they flee,
Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key
Kings, bigots, can inflict no brand of shame,
No! manglers of the martyr's earthly frame!
Your hangmen fingers can not touch his fame.
Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal flame.
-THE MARINER'S SONG.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And bends the gallant mast;
While, like the eagle free,
Old England on the lee.
I heard a fair one cry ;
And white waves heaving high ;
The good ship tight and free,
And merry men are we.
And lightning in yon cloud;
The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashes free,
Our heritage the sea.
XII. - THE SONG OF HIAWATHA.
Ye who love the haunts of Nature, love the sunshine of the meadow, love the shadow of the forest, love the wind among the branches, and the rain-shower and the snow-storm, and the rushing of great rivers through their palisades of pine-trees, and the thunder in the mountains, whose innumerable echoes flap like eagles in their eyries, * listen to these wild traditions, to this Song of Hiawatha ! |
Ye who love a nation's lēgends, love the ballads of a people, that, like voices from afar off, call to us to pause and listen, speak in tones so plain and childlike, scarcely can the ear distinguish whether they are sung or spoken, listen to this Indian legend, to this Song of Hiawatha!
Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, who have faith in God and Nature, who believe that in all ages every human heart is human; that, in even savage bosoms, there are longings, yearnings, strivings, for the good they comprehend not; that the feeble hands and helpless, groping blindly in the darkness, touch God's right hand in the darkness, and are lifted up and strengthened, — listen to this simple story, to this Song of Hiawatha!
Ye who sometimes in your rambles through the green lanes of the country, where the tangled barberry-bushes hang their tufts of crimson berries over stone walls gray with mosses, pause by some neglected grave-yard, for a while to muse and ponder on a half-effaced inscription, writ with little skill of song-craft
, homely phrases, but each letter full of hope and yet of heart-break, full of all the tender pāthos of the Here and the Hereafter, stay and read this rude inscription, read this song of Hiawatha !
XIII. - THE GRAVE.
In death! They repose
From passions and woes,
* Pronounced â'riz.
+ Pronounced He-a-wa'tha, the second a as in fall.
THE TWO RETURNED TUURISTS
From the yoke of the world and the snares of the traitor ! The grave, the grave is the true liberator !
Griefs chase one another
Around the earth's dome;
Alone is our home.
Is the good man unfriended
On life's ocean-path,
Their turbulent wrath ?
gaze on the faces
Of lost ones anew
The loved and the true
grave is the great reüniter !
The chamber of death;
S. A. WAHLMANN,
XIV. - THE TWO RETURNED TOURISTS.
Two travelers through the gateway went
Trocs, meadows, mountains, groves, and streams,
Trees, meadows, mountains, groves, and streams !
FROM THE GERMAN, BY C. T. BROOKS.
XV. – RIENZI TO THE ROMAN CONSPIRATORS IN 1347
Romans! look round you - on this sacred place
There once stood shrines, and gods, and godlike men. What see you now? what solitary trace
Is left of all that made Rome's glory then ? The shrines are sunk, the Sacred Mount bereft
Even of its name and nothing now remains But the deep memory of that glory, left
To whet our pangs and aggravate our chains !
Treading the very soil our fathers trod,
What visitation hath there come from God,
If we, the living, are too weak to crush
Till all but Romans at Rome's tameness blush !
Where only date-trees sigh, and serpents hiss !
For the stork's brood, superb Per-sep’olis!
very wrecks, If lone and lifeless through a desert hurled, Would wear more true magnificence than decks
The assembled thrones of all the existing worldRome, Rome alone is haunted, stained, and cursed,
Through every spot her princely Tiber laves,
By living human things - the deadliest, worst,
This earth engenders — tyrants and their slaves !
O, shame!- we, who have pondered o'er
Tracking our country's glories all the way -
Before that tyrant power, that ghost of her,
And ghastly, on her mouldering sepulcher!
And priestly lords led us, with all our pride
Dragged to the shrine, with faded garlands tied.
og toas vas vead, friend Sancho, that a certain Spanish knight, whose name was
Diugu Perez de Vargas, having broken his sword in the heat of an engagement, pulled up by the roots a wild olive-tree, - or at least tore down a massy bianch,
and did such wonderful execution, crushing and grinding 80 many Mors with it that day, that he won himself and his posterity the surname of Tie Pounder, or Bruiser.” - Don Quixote.
THE Christians have beleaguered the famous walls of Xe'res;
* This word being derived from the French, the ch should have the sound of sh. Pronounced shiv'alry.