Or dropp'd a half-penny in Homer's hat,-
Or doff'd thine own, to let Queen Dido pass,—
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch, at the great temple's dedication!
I need not ask thee, if that hand, when arm'd,
Has any Roman soldier maul'd and knuckled?
For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalm'd,
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled:
Antiquity appears to have begun
Long after thy primeval race was run.
Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue
Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen,
How the world look'd when it was fresh and young,
And the great deluge still had left it green !—
Or was it then so old that history's pages
Contain'd no record of its early ages?
GOD said-"Let there be light!"
Grim darkness felt his might,
And fled away;
Then startled seas and mountains cold
Shone forth, all bright in blue and gold
And cried-" "Tis day! 'tis day!"
'Hail, holy light !" exclaim'd
The thunderous cloud that flamed
O'er daisies white;
And lo! the rose in crimson dress'd
Lean'd sweetly on the lily's breast;
And blushing, murmur'd-" Light!"
Then was the skylark born;
Then rose the embattl'd corn;
Then floods of praise
Flow'd o'er the sunny hills of noon;
And then, in stillest night, the moon
Pour'd forth her pensive lays.
Shall see and feel its fire.
By earth, and hell, and heaven,
The shroud of souls is riven !
Mind, mind alone.
Is light, and hope, and life, and power!
Earth's deepest night from this bless'd hour,
The night of minds is gone!
"The Press!" all lands shall sing ;
The Press, the Press we bring
All lands to bless :
O pallid Want! O Labor stark!
Behold, we bring the second ark!
The Press the Press! the Press!
XXVI.-THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS.
I WROTE Some lines once on a time
In wondrous merry mood,
And thought, as usual, men would say
They were exceeding good.
They were so queer, so very queer,
I laughed as I would die;
Albeit, in the general way,
A sober man am I.
I call'd my servant, and he came ;
How kind it was of him,
To mind a slender man like me,
He of the mighty limb!
"There to the printer," I exclaimed,
And, in my humorous way,
I added, (as a trifling jest,)
"There'll be the devil to pay."
He took the paper, and I watch'd,
And saw him peep within;
At the first line he read, his face
Was all upon the grin.
He read the next; the grin grew broad,
And shot from ear to ear;
He read the third; a chuckling noise
I now began to hear.
The fourth; he broke into a roar;
The fifth; his waistband split;
The sixth; he burst five buttons off,
And tumbled in a fit.
Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man,
And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can.
Ir stands in the Comitium
Plain for all folks to see;
Horatius in his harness,
Halting upon one knee ;
And underneath is written,
In letters all of gold,
How valiantly he kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.
And still his name sounds stirring
Unto the men of Rome,
As the trumpet blast that cries to them
To charge the Volscian home;
And wives still pray to Juno
For boys with hearts as bold
As his who kept the bridge so well
In the brave days of old.
And in the nights of winter,
When the cold north-winds blow,
And the long howling of the wolves
Is heard amidst the snow;
When round the lonely cottage
Roars loud the tempest's din,
And the good logs of Algidus
Roar louder yet within;
When the oldest cask is opened,
And the largest lamp is lit,
When the chestnuts glow in the embers
And the kid turns on the spit ;
When young and old in circle
Around the firebrands close;
When the girls are weaving baskets,
And the lads are shaping bows;
When the good man mends his armor,
And trims his helmet's plume;
When the goodwife's shuttle merrily
Goes flashing through the loom ;
With weeping and with laughter
Still is the story told,
How well Horatius kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.
BATTLE's blast is fiercely blowing,
Clarions sounding, coursers bounding,
Pennons o'er the tumult flowing,
Host on host the eye astounding,
Wave on wave that sea confounding,
And in headlong fury going,
Mounted kingdoms wildly dashing,
Lance to lance, and steed to steed;
Now must haughtiest champions bleed,
And a myriad swords are flashing,
Loud on shield and helmet clashing;
Ne'er had men such noble spoil
On this broad and bloody soil.
As the storms a forest crushing,
Oaks of thousand winters grind,
So the iron whirl is rushing,
Shouts before, and groans behind.
Still amid the dead and dying,
All in shatter'd ridges lying,
Pride, revenge, and youthful daring,
And their cause and country's name,
Drive them on with sweep unsparing,—
Naught for life and all for fame!
Still above the surge of battle
Breathes the trump its fated gale,
And the hollow tambours rattle
Chorus to the deadly tale.
Still is Joan the first in glory,
Still she sways the maddening fight,
Kindling all the flames of story,
With an unimagined might.
Squadrons furious close around her,
Still her blade is waving free ;
Sword nor lance avails to wound her,-
Terror of a host is she.
Heavenly guardian, maiden wonder!
Long shall France resound the day
When thou camest clad in thunder,
Blasting thy tremendous way.
NAI OLEON! years ago, and that great word,
Compact of human breath in hate and dread
And exultation, skyed us overhead—
An atmosphere, whose lightning was the sword,
Scathing the cedars of the world, drawn down
In burnings, by the metal of a crown.
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