CCXXX. THE STRUGGLE FOR FAME. F thou wouldst win a lasting fame, IF 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; Thou 'It 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 jessamnine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, A father bends o'er him with looks of delight; With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast; Ah! what is that flame, which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound which now larums his ear? "T is 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, O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul! Dimond CCXXXII. ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES. A Y, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are! On-on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales, From each slave-mart in Europe, and poison their shore. May their fate be a mockword 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, - free. Shame! shame! when there was not a oosom whose heat Good God! that in such a proud moment of life, 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 Through your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er" If there lingers one spark of her fire, tread it out, And return to your empire of darkness once more. 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 That crowns or closes round this struggling hour, One deeper prayer, 't was that no cloud might lower |