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“ Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made!”
And he fashioned the first plowshare ! And men, taught wisdom from the past,
In friendship joined their hands; Hung the sword in the hall, and the spear on the wall,
And plowed the willing lands; And sang,
“ Hurra for Tubal Cain ! Our staunch good friend is he; And for the plowshare and the plow
To him our prize shall be!
Or a tyrant would be lord,
We'll not forget the sword ! ”
LXXII. - THE BEAUTIFUL.
Let nothing on the earth thy feet deter;
Walk with the Beautiful ! I hear thee say,
“ The Beautiful! what is it?' 0, thou art darkly ignorant! Be sure ”T is no long, weary road, its form to visit, For thou canst make it smile beside thy door.
Then love the Beautiful !
And teach thee patience when thy heart is lonely;
Then love the Beautiful!
Some in a favorite warbler of the skies ;
where! Thy bosom is its mint; the workmen are
Thy thoughts, and they must coin for thee. Believing The Beautiful exists in every star, Thou mak'st it so; and art thyself deceiving,
If otherwise thy faith,
Dost thou see Beauty in the violet's cup ?
I'll teach thee miracles. Walk on this heath,
beautiful !” If thou hast faith,
They will obey thy word.
Less innocent it makes the guileless tongue ;
Best love the Beautiful !
E. H. BURRINGTON.
LXXIII. - CHILDE HAROLD'S DEPARTURE. ADIEU! adieu! My native shore fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, and shrieks the wild
sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea we follow in his flight; Farewell a while to him and thee : my native land, good-night! A few short hours, and he will rise to give the morrow birth ; And I shall hail the main and skies, but not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall, my dog howls at the gate. Come hither, hither, my little page! why dost thou weep and wail ? Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, or tremble at the gale ? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; our ship is swift and strong: Our fleetest falcon * scarce can fly more merrily along. “Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high! I fear not wave nor wind; Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I am sorrowful in mind; For I have from my father gone, a mother whom I love, And have no friend save these alone, but thee. and One above.
My father blessed me fervently, yet did not much complain ; But sorely will my mother sigh till I come back again." Enough, enough, my little lad! such tears become thine eye ; If I thy guileless bosom had, mine own would not be dry. Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman! why dost thou look so
pale? Or dost thou dread a French foeman, or shiver at the gale ? “ Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak: But, thinking on an absent wife will blanch a faithful cheek.
* The l in this word is unsounded, and the a has the sound of a in fall.
THE FATE OF THE FRIENDLESS.
“My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, along the bordering lake; And when they on their father call
, what answer shall she make ?”
my sight, Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves! My native land, good-night!
LXXIV. - THE FATE OF THE FRIENDLESS.
My life is like the summer rose,
That opens to the morning sky,
Is scattered on the ground to die;
That trembles in the moon's pale ray ;
Restless, and soon to pass away ;
Have left on Tampa's desert strand ;
All trace will vanish from the sand ;
R. HI, WILDE.
From life without freedom, say, who would not fly?
LXXVI. — WAR THE GAME OF TYRANTS.
Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note ?
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?
your brethren ere they sank beneath Tyrants and tyrants’ slaves ? — The fires of death, The bale-fires flash on high :—from rock to rock,
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe ; Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock ! Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun, With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ;
Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet
Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done; For, on this morn, three potent nations meet To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ;
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ;
BELIEF IN A FUTURE STATE.
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies ;
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
The foe, the victim, and the fond al-ly'
Are met- as if at home they could not die
Yes, Honor decks the turf that wraps their clay !
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away
way With human hearts — to what? - a dream alone.
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway?
LXXVII. — BELIEF IN A FUTURE STATE.