I would not be living
At ease and at play;
True honor and glory
I'd win in my day!
A soldier! a soldier!
In armor arrayed;
My weapons in hand,
Of no contest afraid;
I'd ever be ready
To strike the first blow,
And to fight my good way
Through the ranks of the foe.
But then, let me tell you,
No blood would I shed,
No victory seek o'er
The dying and dead;
A far braver soldier
Than this would I be ;
A warrior of Truth,
In the ranks of the free!
A soldier! a soldier!
O, then, let me be !
Young friends, I invite you—
Enlist now with me.
Truth's bands will be mustered
Love's foes shall give way!
Let's up, and be clad
In our battle array!
WHEN, from the sacred garden driven,
Man fled before his Maker's wrath,
An angel left her place in heaven,
And crossed the wanderer's sunless path.
'Twas Art! sweet Art! new radiance broke
Where her light foot flew o'er the ground;
And thus with seraph voice she spoke,-
"The curse a blessing shall be found."
She led him through the trackless wild,
Where noontide sunbeams never blazed;
The thistle shrank, the harvest smiled,
And nature gladdened, as she gazed.
Earth's thousand tribes of living things,
At Art's command, to him are given ;
The village grows, the city springs,
And point their spires of faith to heaven.
He rends the oak, and bids it ride,
To guard the shores its beauty graced ; He smites the rock, upheaved in pride,
See towers of strength and domes of taste! Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal, Fire bears his banner on the wave, He bids the mortal poison heal,
And leaps triumphant o'er the grave.
He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,
Admiring beauty's lap to fill;
He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep,
And mocks his own Creator's skill.
With thoughts that fill his glowing soul,
He bids the ore illume the page;
And, proudly scorning Time's control,
Commerces with an unborn age.
In fields of air he writes his name,
And treads the chambers of the sky;
He reads the stars, and grasps the flame
That quivers round the Throne on high.
In war renowned, in peace sublime,
He moves in greatness and in
His power, subduing space and time,
Links realm to realm, and race to race.
АH! leave him alone to sleep forever,
Till the strong archangel calls for the dead,
By the verdant bank of that rushing river,
Where first they pillowed his mighty head!
Lonely may be the turf that covers
The sacred grave of his last repose;
But, ah! there's a glory that round it hovers,
Broad as the day-break, and bright as its close.
Though marble pillars were reared above him,
Temples and obelisks, rich and rare —
Better he dwells in the hearts that love him,
Cold and lone as he slumbers there.
Why should ye gather with choral numbers?
Why should your thronging thousand come?
Who will dare to invade his slumbers,
Or bear him away from his narrow home?
Well he sleeps, in solemn majesty,
Silent and stern, of awful death!
And he who visits him there should be
Alone with God, and his own hushed breath.
Revel and pomp would profane his ashes;
And may never a sound be murmured there,
Save the glorious river that by him dashes,
And the pilgrim's voice in his heartfelt prayer!
Yea, Teave him alone! To sleep forever!
'Till the trump that wakes the countless dead,
By the verdant bank of that rushing river,
Where first they pillowed his mighty head.
DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.
THE king stood still
Till the last echo died; then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:
"Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom!
"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,
Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet' my father!' from those dumb And cold lips, Absalom!
"But death is on thee! I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come,
To meet me, Absalom!
"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!
"And now,
farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee!
And thy dark sin!-oh! I could dthe cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy, Absalom!"
He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer.
And, as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently—and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
O thou vast Ocean! ever-sounding sea!
Thou symbol of a drear immensity!
Thou thing, that windest round the solid world
Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled
From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone,
Lashing, and writhing, till its strength be gone,
Thy voice is like the thunder; and thy sleep
Is like a giant's slumber, loud and deep.
Thou speakest in the east and in the west
At once; and on thy heavily laden breast
Fleets come and go, and shapes, that have no life
Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife.
The earth hath nought of this; nor chance nor change
Ruffles its surface; and no spirits dare
Give answer to the tempest-waken air;
But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range
At will, and wound his bosom as they go.
Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow;
But in their stated round the seasons come
And pass like visions to their viewless home,
And come again, and vanish: the young spring
Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming,
And winter always winds his sullen horn,
And the wild autumn, with a look forlorn,
Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies
Weep,
Thou
A wille; and in thy wrathful hour,
When thou dost lift thine anger to the clouds,
A fearful and magnificent beauty shrouds
flowers sicken when the summer flies.
rrible Ocean, hast a power,
Thy broad green forehead. If thy waves be driven
Backwards and forwards by the shifting wind,
How quickly dost thou thy great strength unbind,
And stretch thine arms, and war at once with heaven!
Oh! wonderful thou art, great element:
And fearful in thy spleeny humors bent,
And lovely in repose: thy summer form
Is beautiful; and when thy silver waves
Make music in earth's dark and winding caves,
I love to wander on thy pebbled beach.
Marking the sunlight at the evening hour,
And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach,
Eternity, Eternity, and power."
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