Floral apostles! that in dewy splendor
"Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," Oh, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender, Your lore sublime!
"Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory,
Arrayed," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours;
"How vain your grandeur! ah, how transitory
Are human flowers!"
In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly Artist,
With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall
What a delightful lesson thou impartest
Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure
Blooming o'er field and wave by day and night,
From every source your sanction bids me treasure
Harmless delight.
Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary
For such a world of thought could furnish scope?
Each fading calyx a memento mori,
Yet fount of hope.
Posthumous glories! angel-like collection!
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth,
Ye are to me a type of resurrection,
Were I, oh God! in churchless lands remaining,
Far from all voice of teachers or divines,
My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining,
Priests, sermons, shrines!
Brakenbury. Why looks your Grace so heavily to-day?
Clarence. Oh, I have passed a miserable night,
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,
That, as I am a Christian, faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days,
So full of dismal terror was the time.
Br. What was your dream, my lord? I pray you, tell me. Clar. Methought that I had broken from the Tower,
And was embarked, to cross to Burgundy;
And, in my company, my brother Gloster;
Who, from my cabin, tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches; whence we looked toward England,
And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster,
That had befallen us. As we paced along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought that Gloster stumbled; and, in falling,
Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard
Into the tumbling billows of the main.
Oh, then, methought, what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of water in mine ears!
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;
A thousand men, that fishes gnawed upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearls,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,
All scattered in the bottom of the sea.
Some lay in dead men's skulls; and, in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept
(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems,
That wooed the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by.
Brak. Had you such leisure, in the time of death,
To gaze upon these secrets of the deep?
Clar. Methought I had; and often did I strive
To yield the ghost: but still the envious flood
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth
To seek the empty, vast, and wandering air;
But smothered it within my panting bulk,
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.
Brak. Awaked you not with this sore agony?
Clar. Oh, no; my dream was lengthened after life; Oh, then began the tempest to my soul!
I passed, methought, the melancholy flood,
With that grim ferryman which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first that there did greet my stranger soul,
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick:
Who cried aloud, "What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?"
And so he vanished. Then came wandering by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood; and he shrieked out aloud:
"Clarence is come! false, fleeting, perjured Clarence!
That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury:
Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments!"
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environed me, and howléd in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise,
I trembling waked, and, for a season after,
Could not believe but that I was in hell,-
Such terrible impression made my dream.
Brak. No marvel, lord, that it affrighted you;
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.
Clar. O, Brakenbury, I have done these things,
That now give evidence against my soul,
For Edward's sake, and see how he requites me!
-I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me;
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.
77.-DOUBTING.
GERTRUDE M. DOWNEY.
I walked alone in the darkness,
One stormy night;
Behind me fast faded the city,
My home and its light.
I said, "On the earth's wide bosom
I stand all alone;
God has hidden His face; I'm forsaken—
All hope is gone!
I watch for His hand 'mid the shadows
That circle my feet;
I listen, but nothing I hear save
My own heart's wild beat.
Yet I marvel not He has left me,
Too faithless and vain,
To walk in the light of His favor
Ever again!
My heart has forgotten His mercy
Till mercy is past,
And my Lord, whom my sins have long wearied,
Leaves me at last!"
But, swift as the flash of the lightning,
Came a voice, through the gloom that engulfed me,
So tenderly:
"When earth and its friends all forsake thee,
Look thou above,
For the Father Eternal remembers
The child of His love.
The shadows that gather around thee
But herald the light;
Had the sun never risen to warm thee
Where, then, were thy night?
Forget not the springs in the desert,
So arid and drear;
For thee shall the wilderness blossom;
Why did'st thou fear?
God gave thee His promise to keep thee, He cannot deceive;
He gave thee His word and His promise,
Only believe!
He sought thee, cast out and forsaken,
Bidding thee 'Live!'
He gave thee the Son of His bosom ;
What more could He give?"
Then swift o'er my heart in the darkness
That stormy night,
With the peace and the joy of believing, Came inward light,
And my lips sent a prayer for forgiveness Up to His throne:
"Forgive me, my Father, I measured Thy love by my own!"
78.-BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.
THOMAS CAMPBELL
On Linden when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each warrior drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of Heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet those fires shall glow
On Linden's hills of blood-stained snow,
And darker yet shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn; but scarce yon lurid sun Can pierce the war-clouds' rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part where many meet,
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
79.-THE VILLAGE PREACHER.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich, with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place.
Unpracticed he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour:
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize--
More bent to raise the wretched, than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train;
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain.
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast:
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed:
The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave, ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side:
But, in his duty prompt at every call.
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all:
And, as a bird, each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
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