Amongst the mirrored lamps, which fling Their wasteful splendor from the palace wall None, none escape the kindness of thy care; All compassed underneath thy spacious wing, Each fed and guided by thy powerful hand.
Tell me, ye splendid orbs! as from your throne, Ye mark the rolling provinces that own
Your sway-what beings fill those bright abodes? How formed, how gifted? what their powers, their state, Their happiness, their wisdom? Do they bear The stamp of human nature? Or has God Peopled those purer realms with lovelier forms And more celestial minds? Does Innocence Still wear her native and untainted bloom? Or has Sin breathed his deadly blight abroad, And sowed corruption in those fairy bowers? Has War trod o'er them with his foot of fire? And Slavery forged his chains; and Wrath, and Hate, And sordid Selfishness, and cruel Lust,
Leagued their base bands to tread out light and truth, And scatter wo where Heaven had planted joy? Or are they yet all paradise, unfallen
And uncorrupt? existence one long joy, Without disease upon the frame, or sin Upon the heart, or weariness of life-
Hope never quenched, and age unknown,
And death unfeared; while fresh and fadeless youth Glows in the light from God's near throne of love? Open your lips, ye wonderful and fair!
Speak, speak! the mysteries of those living worlds Unfold! No language? Everlasting light, And everlasting silence?-Yet the eye
May read and understand. The hand of God Has written legibly what man may know,
THE GLORY OF THE MAKER. There it shines, Ineffable, unchangeable; and man,
Bound to the surface of this pigmy globe, May know and ask no more. In other days,
When death shall give the encumbered spirit wings, Its range shall be extended; it shall roam,
Perchance, amongst those vast mysterious spheres, Shall pass from orb to orb, and dwell in each Familiar with its children-learn their laws, And share their state, and study and adore The infinite varieties of bliss
And beauty, by the hand of Power divine Lavished on all its works. Eternity
Shall thus roll on with ever fresh delight; No pause of pleasure or improvement; world On world still opening to the instructed mind An unexhausted universe, and time
But adding to its glories. While the soul, Advancing ever to the Source of light And all perfection, lives, adores, and reigns In cloudless knowledge, purity, and bliss.
Look not upon the Wine when it is red."—N. P. WILLIS
Look not upon the wine when it Is red within the cup!
Stay not for Pleasure when she fills Her tempting beaker up!
Though clear its depths, and rich its glow, A spell of madness lurks below.
They say 'tis pleasant on the lip, And merry on the brain: They say it stirs the sluggish blood, And dulls the tooth of pain. Ay-but within its glowing deeps A stinging serpent, unseen, sleeps.
Its rosy lights will turn to fire, Its coolness change to thirst; And, by its mirth, within the brain A sleepless worm is nursed. There's not a bubble at the brim That does not carry food for him.
Then dash the brimming cup aside, And spill its purple wine: Take not its madness to thy lip- Let not its curse be thine. 'Tis red and rich-but grief and wo Are hid those rosy depths below.
on the Death of a Friend.-ANDREWS NORTON.
O STAY thy tears; for they are blessed,
Whose days are passed, whose toil is done; Here midnight care disturbs our rest,
Here sorrow dims the noon-day sun.
For laboring virtue's anxious toil, For patient sorrow's stifled sigh,
For faith that marks the conqueror's spoil, Heaven grants the recompense, to die.
How blessed are they, whose transient years Pass like an evening meteor's flight; Not dark with guilt, nor dim with tears; Whose course is short, unclouded, bright.
O cheerless were our lengthened way; But heaven's own light dispels the gloom, Streams downward from eternal day, And casts a glory round the tomb.
Then stay thy tears; the blessed above Have hailed a spirit's heavenly birth,
Sung a new song of joy and love;
And why should anguish reign on earth?
Dirge of Alaric the Visigoth.-EDWARD EVERETT.
Alaric stormed and spoiled the city of Rome, and was afterwards buried in the channel of the river Busentius, the water of which had been diverted from its course that the body might be interred.
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 cannot 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; 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 Before my ruthless sabaoth,
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, 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 ploughed 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 die In the purple of their majesty, And bade my northern banners shine Upon the conquered Palatine.
My course is run, my errand done; I go to Him from whom I came; But never yet shall set the sun
Of glory that adorns my name; And Roman hearts shall long be sick, When men shall think of Alaric.
My course is run, my errand done; But darker ministers of fate, Impatient, round the eternal throne, And in the caves of vengeance, wait; And soon mankind shall blench away Before the name of Attila.
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