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Fools that they were, could not mine eye,
Through their dissembled calmness, spy
The struggles of despair ?
Else had they sent this wasted frame,
To bribe you to your country's shame ?
Your land (I must not call it mine;
No country has the slave;
His father's name he must resign,
And even his father's grave.
But this not now) — beneath her lies
Proud Carthage and her destinies :
Her empire o'er the wave
yours; she knows it well
Shall know, and make her feel it, too!
Ay, bend your brows, ye ministers
Of coward hearts, on me!
Ye know no longer it is hers,
The empire of the sea ;
Ye know her fleets are far and few,
Her bands, a mercenary crew;
And Rome, the bold and free,
Shall trample on her prostrate towers,
Despite your weak and wasted powers.
One path alone remains for me;
My vows were heard on high.
Thy triumphs, Rome, I shall not see,
For I return to die.
Then tell not me of hope or life ;
I have in Rome no chaste, fond wife,
No smiling progeny.
One word concenters for the slave
Wife, children, country, all — THE GRAVE!
XXVI. - WHAT MAKES A KING.*
'Tis not wealth that makes a king,
Nor the purple's coloring,
Nor a brow that's bound with gold,
Nor gates on mighty hinges rolled. * This beautiful piece is a translation of part of a chorus in Seneca's Thyestes.
The king is he who, void of fear,
Looks abroad with bosom clear;
Who can tread ambition down,
Nor be swayed by smile or frown;
Nor for all the treasure cares
That mine conceals or harvest wears,
Or that golden sands deliver,
Bosomed in a glassy river.
What shall move his placid might ?
Not the headlong thunder-light,
Nor the storm that rushes out
To snatch the shivering waves about,
Nor all the shapes of slaughter's trade,
With forward lance, or fiery blade.
Safe with wisdom for his crown,
He looks on all things calmly down;
He welcomes fate, when fate is near,
Nor taints his dying breath with fear.
Grant that all the kings assemble,
At whose head the Scythians tremble ;
Grant that in the train be they
Whom the Red Sea shores obey,
Where the gems and crystal caves
Sparkle up through purple waves ;
Bring with these the Caspian stout,
Who scorns to shut the invader out;
And the daring race that tread
The rocking of the Danube's bed ;
With those again, where'er they be,
Who, lapped in silken luxury,
Feed to the full their lordly will ;-
The noble mind is monarch still.
No need has he of vulgar force,
Armor or arms, or chested horse,
Nor all the idle darts that light
From Parthian in his feigned flight,
Nor whirling rocks from engines thrown
That come to shake whole cities down.
No! to fear not earthly thing,
This it is that makes the king;
And all of us, whoe'er we be,
May carve us out this royalty.
When the last sunshine of expiring day
In summer's twilight weeps itself away,
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower ?
"T is not harsh sorrow
- but a tenderer woe,
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below;
Felt without bitterness — but full and clear;
A sweet dejection -- a transparent tear,
Unmixed with worldly grief or selfish stain,
Shed without shame, and secret without pain.
Even as the tenderness that hour instills
When summer's day declines along the hills,
So feels the fullness of our heart and eyes
When all of Genius which can perish dies !
Almighty spirit is eclipsed - a power
Hath passed from day to darkness - to whose hout
Of light no likeness is bequeathed -
no name, Focus at once of all the
of Fame !
The flash of Wit, the bright Intelligence,
The beam of Song, the blaze of Eloquence,
Set with their sun but still have left behind
The enduring produce of immortal Mind;
Fruits of a genial morn and glorious noon,
A deathless part of him who died too soon,
Ye orators ! whom yet our councils yield,
Mourn for the veteran hero of your field !
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three,*
Whose words were sparks of immortality!
Ye bards! to whom the drama's muse is dear,
He was your master — emulate him here!
Ye men of wit and social eloquence!
brother - bear his ashes hence !
While powers of mind almost of boundless range,
Complete in kind, as various in their change,
While Eloquence, Wit, Poesy, and Mirth,
That humbler harmonist of care on earth,
Survive within our souls, -- while lives our sense
Of pride in Merit’s proud preëminence,
* Pitt, Fox, and Burke.
Long shall we seek his likeness — long in vain,
And turn to all of him which may re
Sighing that Nature formed but one such man,
And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan!
XXVIII. - FAITH.
YE who think the truth ye sow
Lost beneath the winter snow,
Doubt not, Time's unerring law
Yet shall bring the genial thaw.
God in Nature ye can trust :
Is the God of Mind less just ?
Read we not the mighty thought
Once by ancient sages taught?
Though it withered in the blight
Of the mediæval night,
Now the harvest we behold;
See! it bears a thousand fold.
Workers on the barren soil,
Yours may seem a thankless toil;
Sick at heart with hope deferred,
Listen to the cheering word :
Now the faithful sower grieves ;
Soon he 'll bind his golden sheaves.
If Great Wisdom have decreed
Man may labor, yet the seed
Never in this life shall
Shall the sower cease to sow ?
The fairest fruit may yet be born
On the resurrection morn!
In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable
disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they wero found guarded by a faithful dog, his constant attendant during frequent
solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide ; All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling,
And, starting around me, the echoes replied.
On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,
And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died. Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather,
Where the pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay,
Like the corpse of an outcast, abandoned to weather,
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay.
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended,
The much-loved remains of her master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.
How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?
When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start? How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
And, O! was it meet, that no requiem read o'er him,
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him
Unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart?
When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded,
The tăpestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall : Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming; In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming ; Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,
To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,
When 'wildered he drops from some cliff huge in stature,
And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.
And more stately thy couch, by this desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.
XXX. - THE STATUE OF THE BELVIDERE APOLLO.
ye the arrow hurtle in the sky ?
ye the dragon monster's deathful cry?
In settled majesty of calm disdain,
Proud of his might, yet scornful of the slain,