COXXX. THE STRUGGLE FOR FAME. IF thou wouldst win a lasting fame,— If thou the immortal wreath wouldst claim, And make the future bless thy name, Begin thy perilous career, Keep high thy heart, thy conscience, clear, And if thou hast a voice within, If thou canst plan a noble deed, Though in the strife thy heart should bleed; If thou canst see, with tranquil breast, If thou canst rise ere break of day, Thou 'lt win the prize, thou 'lt reach the goal. N slumbers of midnight, the sailor-boy lay; IN His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; But watch-worn and weary his cares flew away, And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers, Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide, The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, A father bends o'er him with looks of delight; The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast; 66 Ah! what is that flame, which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound which now larums his ear? 'Tis the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky! 'Tis the crash of the thunder, the groan of the sphere! He springs from his hammock —he flies to the deck; O, sailor-boy! woe to thy dream of delight! In darkness dissolves the gay frostwork of bliss Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss! O! sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay; Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay. No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge. On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid ; Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, And still the vast waters above thee shall roll; Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul! Dimond. CCXXXII. ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES. AY, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are! From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk from the first touch of Liberty's war, Be sucked out by tyrants, or stagnate in chains! On-on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales, From each slave-mart in Europe, and poison their shore. Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles, When each sword that the cowards let fall' from their hands, Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls! And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven, that they might have been Shame! shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat And send back its prayers with your Liberty's start ! Good God! that in such a proud moment of life, Worth ages of history One bolt at your bloody invader, that strife Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world! That then - O, disgrace upon manhood! e'en then You should falter should cling to your pitiful breath, Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, And prefer a slave's life to a glorious death! It is strange ! — it is dreadful! Shout, Tyranny, shout For if such are the braggarts that claim to be free, Far nobler to live the brute-bondman of thee, T. Moore. CCXXXIII. THE BATTLE HYMN OF THE BERLIN LANDSTURM. FATHER of earth and heaven! I call thy name ! Round me the smoke and shout of battle roll; Or life, or death, whatever be the goal One deeper prayer, 't was that no cloud might lower |