Up! let us to the fields away, The flower has opened to the bee, And health, and love, and peace are there. 83.—THE STATUE. ANONYMOUS. In Athens, when all learning centred there, And on the top, that dwindled to the sight, Making the wintry marble glow with truth, But Phidias, beneath a dazzling thought That like a bright sun in a cloudless west Lit up his wide, great soul, with pure love wrought A statue, and its face of changeless stone With calm, far-sighted wisdom towered and shone. Then to be judged the labors were unveiled; Of hardship Phidias cut, the people railed. "The lines are coarse; the form too large," said these "And he who sends this rough result of haste Sends scorn, and offers insult to our taste." Alcamenes' praised work was lifted high Upon the capital where it might stand; But there it seemed too small, and 'gainst the sky So it was lowered, and quickly put aside, And the scorned thought was mounted to be tried. Surprise swept o'er the faces of the crowd, And changed them as a sudden breeze may change A field of fickle grass, and long and loud Their mingled shouts, to see a sight so strange. The statue stood completed in its place, Each coarse line melted to a line of grace. So bold, great actions, that are seen too near, In their true grandeur. Let us yet be wise, 84.-OLD TUBAL CAIN. CHARLES MACKAY. Old Tubal Cain was a man of might And he lifted high his brawny hand On the iron glowing clear, Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers Hurrah for the hand that wields them well, To Tubal Cain came many a one, As he wrought by his roaring fire: And each one prayed for a strong steel blade, As the crown of his heart's desire. And he made them weapons sharp and strong, Till they shouted aloud for glee, And gave him gifts of pearl and gold, And spoils of the forest tree; And they sang, "Hurrah for Tubal Cain, Who has given us strength anew! Hurrah for the smith, and hurrah for the fire, And hurrah for the metal true!" But a sudden change came o'er his heart Ere the setting of the sun : And Tubal Cain was filled with pain For the evil he had done. He saw that men, with rage and hate, That the land was fed with the blood they shed, And he said, Alas! that ever I made, Or that skill of mine should plan, And for many a day old Tubal Cain And his hand forbore to smite the ore, But he rose at last with a cheerful face, And he bared his strong arm for the work, "Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made!" And he fashioned the first ploughshare! And men, taught wisdom from the past, In friendship joined their hands; Hung the sword in the hall, and the spear on the wall, And ploughed the willing lands; And sang, Hurrah for Tubal Cain! Our staunch good friend is he; And for the ploughshare and the plow To him our prize shall be! But when oppression lifts its hand, Or a tyrant would be lord, Though we may thank him for the plough, We'll not forget the sword!" 85.-AUX ITALIENS. R. B. LYTTON. At Paris it was, at the opera there; And she looked like a queen in a book that night, With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch on her breast so bright. Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory. The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, "Non ti scordar di me!" ("Remember me alway.") The emperor there, in his box of state, Looked grave; as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city gate, Where his eagles in bronze had been. The empress, too, had a tear in her eye You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, Well! there in our front-row box we sat And both were silent, and both were sad;- So confident of her charm! I have not a doubt she was thinking then I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love I thought of the dress that she wore last time In the crimson evening weather; Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot); And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast; And the one star over the tower. I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring; For I thought of her grave below the hill, And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, It made me creep, and it made me cold! And I turned and looked; she was sitting there, I was here, and she was there: And the glittering horse-shoe curved between :— From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair And her sumptuous scornful mien, To my early love with her eyes downcast, To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage; and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more. My thinking of her, or the music's strain, Or something which never will be exprest, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmine in her breast. She is not dead, and she is not wed! But she loves me now, and she loved me then! And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again. The marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; And but for her . . . well, we'll let that pass; She may marry whomever she will. But I will marry my own first love, With the primrose face, for old things are best; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast. The world is filled with folly and sin, And love must cling where it can, I say: For beauty is easy enough to win; But one isn't lovea every day.. |