THE CHRISTIAN MARTYR.

If thou canst bear the rich man's scorn,
Nor curse the day that thou wert born
To feed on husks, and he on corn;

If thou canst dine upon a crust,
And still hold on with patient trust,
Nor pine that fortune is unjust;

If thou canst see, with tranquil breast,
The knave or fool in purple dressed,
Whilst thou must walk in tattered vest;-

If thou canst rise ere break of day,
And toil and moil till evening gray,
At thankless work, for scanty pay; -

If in thy progress to renown

Thou canst endure the scoff and frown
Of those who strive to pull thee down;

If thou canst bear the averted face,
The gibe, or treacherous embrace,
Of those who run the self-same race;·

If thou in darkest days canst find
An inner brightness in thy mind,
To reconcile thee to thy kind :

Whatever obstacles control,

-

go on

Thou 'lt win the prize, thou 'lt reach the goal.

349

CHARLES MACKAY.

LI.- THE CHRISTIAN MARTYR.

THE eyes of thousands glanced on him, as mid the cirque he stood, Unheeding of the shout which broke from that vast multitude. The prison damps had paled his cheek, and on his lofty brow Corroding care had deeply traced the furrows of his plow.

Amid the crowded cirque he stood, and raised to heaven his eye,
For well that feeble old man knew they brought him forth to die!
Yet joy was beaming in that eye, while from his lips a prayer
Passed up to heaven, and faith secured his peaceful dwelling there.
Then calmly on his foes he looked; and, as he gazed, a tear
Stole o'er his cheeks; but 't was the birth of pity, not of fear.
He knelt down on the
once more he looked toward

heaven;

sand gory

And to the Christian's God he prayed that they might be forgiven.

But, hark! another shout, o'er which the hungry lion's roar
Is heard, like thunder, mid the swell on a tempestuous shore!
And forth the Lybian savage bursts - rolls his red eyes around;
Then on his helpless victim springs, and beats him to the ground.
Short pause was left for hope or fear; the instinctive love of life
One struggle made, but vainly made, in such unequal strife;
Then with the scanty stream of life his jaws the savage dyed;
While, one by one, the quivering limbs his bloody feast supplied.
Rome's prince and senators partook the shouting crowd's delight;
And Beauty gazed unshrinkingly on that unhallowed sight.
But say, what evil had he done? — what sin of deepest hue?
A blameless faith was all the crime that Christian martyr knew!
But where his precious blood was spilt, even from that barren sand,
There sprang a stem, whose vigorous boughs soon overspread the
land:

O'er distant isles its shadow fell; nor knew its roots decay,
Even when the Roman Cæsar's throne and rule had passed away.

REV. HAMILTON BUCHANAN.

LII. THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged; 't is at a white heat now.
The windlass strains the tackle-chains, the black mound heaves below;
And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe:

It rises, roars, rends all outright-O, Vulcan, what a glow!

'Tis blinding white, 't is blasting bright; the high sun shines not so!

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow

Sinks on the anvil, all about the faces fiery grow.

"Hurra!" they shout, "leap out, leap out!" bang, bang, the sledges go!

Leap out, leap out, my masters! leap out, and lay on load!
Let's forge a goodly anchor- -a Bower thick and broad:
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow I bode;
And I see the good ship riding all in a perilous road,
The low reef roaring on her lea; the roll of ocean poured

From stem to stern. sea after sea: the mainmast by the board;

DIRGE OF ALARIC, THE VISIGOTH.

351

The bulwarks down; the rudder gone; the boats stove at the chains;
But, courage still, brave mariners! - the Bower yet remains,

And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky-high ;
Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing; here am I!"
Swing in your strokes in order - let foot and hand keep time!
Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime;
But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burden be,
The anchor is the anvil-king, and royal craftsmen we!
Strike in, strike in! the sparks begin to dull their rustling red;
Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped:
Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array

For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;
Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here
For the yeo heave-o, and the heave-away, and the sighing seamen's cheer.
O, trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me,
What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!
O, deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou?
The hoary monsters' palaces! methinks what joy 't were now
To go plump plunging down amid the assembly of the whales,
And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails!
O, broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine?
The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that tugs thy cable line;
And night by night 't is thy delight, thy glory day by day,
Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play;
But, shamer of our little sports! forgive the name I gave :
A fisher's joy is to destroy-thine office is to save.

LIII.

S. FERGUSON.

DIRGE OF ALARIC,* THE VISIGOTH.
WHEN I am dead, no pageant train
Shall waste their sorrows at my bier,
Nor worthless pomp of homage vain
Stain it with hypocritic tear;
For I will die as I did live,
Nor take the boon I can not give.
Ye shall not raise a marble bust
Upon the spot where I repose;
Ye shall not fawn before my dust,

In hollow circumstance of woes;
Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath,
Insult the clay that moulds beneath.
Ye shall not pile, with servile toil,
Your monuments upon my breast;
Nor yet within the common soil

Lay down the wreck of power to rest,

* Alaric stormed and spoiled the city of Rome, and was afterwards buried in the channel of the river Busentinus, the water of which had been diverted from its course that the body might be interred.

Where man can boast that he has trod
On him that was "the scourge of God."
But ye the mountain stream shall turn,
And lay its secret channel bare,
And hollow, for your sovereign's urn,
A resting-place for ever there;
Then bid its everlasting springs
Flow back upon the King of Kings;
And never be the secret said,
Until the deep give up his dead.

My gold and silver ye shall fling

Back to the clods that gave them birth ;-
The captured crowns of many a king,
The ransom of a conquered earth:
For e'en though dead, will I control
The trophies of the Capitol.

But when beneath the mountain tide
Ye 've laid your monarch down to rot,
Ye shall not rear upon its side

Pillar or mound to mark the spot:
For long enough the world has shook
Beneath the terrors of my look;
And now that I have run my race,
The astonished realms shall rest a space.
My course was like a river deep,

And from the northern hills I burst,
Across the world in wrath to sweep,

And where I went the spot was cursed;
Nor blade of grass again was seen
Where Alaric and his hosts had been.

See how their haughty barriers fail
Beneath the terror of the Goth!
Their iron-breasted legions quail
ruthless sabaoth! *

Before my

And low the Queen † of empires kneels,

And grovels at my

chariot-wheels!

Not for myself did I ascend

In judgment my triumphal car;
'Twas God alone on high did send
The avenging Scythian to the war,

A Hebrew word, signifying armies, hosts.

† Rome.

THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS.

To shake abroad, with iron hand,
The appointed scourge of His command.
With iron hand that scourge I reared
O'er guilty king and guilty realm ;
Destruction was the ship I steered,

And Vengeance sat upon the helm !
When launched in fury on the flood,
I plowed my way through seas of blood,
And in the stream their hearts had spilt
Washed out the long arrears of guilt!
Across the everlasting Alp

I poured the torrent of my powers,
And feeble Cæsars shrieked for help

In vain within their seven-hilled towers!
I quenched in blood the brightest gem
That glittered in their diadem;
And struck a darker, deeper dye
In the purple of their majesty;
And bade my northern banners shine
Upon the conquered Palatine.*

353

Before the name of Attila. EDWARD EVERETT.

LIV. -THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS.

HERE halt we our march, and pitch our tent,
On the rugged forest ground,

And light our fire with the branches rent

By the winds from the beeches round.

*The Palatine was one of the seven hills of Rome. Augustus had his palace here.