I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed,
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled;
For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed,
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled:
Antiquity appears to have begun
Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou could'st develop-if that withered tongue Might tell us what those sightless orbs have

seen

Statue of flesh-Immortal of the dead! Imperishable type of evanescence! Posthumous man- who quitt'st thy narrow bed,

And standest undecayed within our presence! Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning,

When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning.

young,

And the great deluge still had left it green;

Or was it then so old that history's pages
Contained no record of its early ages?

Still silent! incommunicative elf!

Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows; But prythee tell us something of thyself— Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house;

Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered

What hast thou seen-what strange adventures numbered?

Since first thy form was in this box extended We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations:

The Roman empire has begun and ended — New worlds have risen- we have lost old nations;

And countless kings have into dust been humbled, While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread

O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis;

And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder,
When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder?

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed,
The nature of thy private life unfold:

A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast,
And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled;
Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that

face?

What was thy name and station, age and race?

If its undying guest be lost for ever?
Oh! let us keep the soul embalmed and pure

In living virtue-that when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom! HORACE SMITH.

Ode to an Indian Gold Coin. SLAVE of the dark and dirty mine! What vanity has brought thee here? How can I love to see thee shine So bright, whom I have bought so dear! The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear For twilight converse, arm in arm;

The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear When mirth and music wont to charm.

By Cherical's dark, wandering streams,

Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams
Of Teviot loved while still a child;
Of castled rocks stupendous piled
By Esk or Eden's classic wave,

Where loves of youth and friendships smiled Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade!
The perished bliss of youth's first prime,
That once so bright on fancy played,
Revives no more in after-time.
Far from my sacred natal clime,

I haste to an untimely grave;

The daring thoughts that soared sublime Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.

And, flaming o'er the midnight deep,

In lurid fringes thrown,

The living gems of ocean sweep Along her flashing zone.

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel,

And smoking torch on high,
When winds are loud, and billows reel,
She thunders, foaming, by!
When seas are silent and serene

With even beam she glides,

The sunshine glimmering through the green That skirts her gleaming sides.

Now, like a wild nymph, far apart
She veils her shadowy form,

The beating of her restless heart
Still sounding through the storm;
Now answers, like a courtly dame,

The reddening surges o'er,
With flying scarf of spangled flame,
The pharos of the shore.

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep,

Who trims his narrowed sail;
To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep

Her broad breast to the gale;

And many a foresail, scooped and strained,
Shall break from yard and stay,
Before this smoky wreath hath stained
The rising mist of day.

Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud,
I see yon quivering mast-

The black throat of the hunted cloud

Is panting forth the blast!

An hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff,
The giant surge shall fling
His tresses o'er yon pennon-staff,

White as the sea-bird's wing!

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep!

Nor wind nor wave shall tire
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap

With floods of living fire;
Sleep on-and when the morning light
Streams o'er the shining bay,
Oh, think of those for whom the night
Shall never wake in day!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

The Village Blacksmith.

UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree

The village smithy stands: The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat
He earns whate'er he can ;

And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow -

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children, coming home from school,
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach -
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing-
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close-
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wroughtThus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

The Song of the Forge.

CLANG, clang! the massive anvils ring;
Clang, clang! a hundred hammers swing -
Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky,
The mighty blows still multiply—
Clang, clang!

Say, brothers of the dusky brow,
What are your strong arms forging now?

Clang, clang!- we forge the coulter now-
The coulter of the kindly plough.

Sweet Mary mother, bless our toil!
May its broad furrow still unbind
To genial rains, to sun and wind,
The most benignant soil!

Clang, clang!- our coulter's course shall be
On many a sweet and sheltered lea,

By many a streamlet's silver tide—
Amidst the song of morning birds,
Amidst the low of sauntering herds—
Amidst soft breezes, which do stray
Through woodbine hedges and sweet May,
Along the green hill's side.

When regal autumn's bounteous hand
With wide-spread glory clothes the land-
When to the valleys, from the brow

Of each resplendent slope, is rolled

A ruddy sea of living gold —
We bless, we bless the plough.

Clang, clang!-again, my mates, what glows
Beneath the hammer's potent blows?
Clink, clank!- we forge the giant chain,
Which bears the gallant vessel's strain
'Midst stormy winds and adverse tides;
Secured by this, the good ship braves
The rocky roadstead, and the waves
Which thunder on her sides.

Anxious no more, the merchant sees The mist drive dark before the breeze, The storm-cloud on the hill; Calmly he rests-though far away, In boisterous climes, his vessel lay — Reliant on our skill.

Say on what sands these links shall sleep,
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep?
By Afric's pestilential shore;
By many an iceberg, lone and hoar;
By many a palmy western isle,
Basking in spring's perpetual smile;
By stormy Labrador.

Say, shall they feel the vessel reel,
When to the battery's deadly peal

The crashing broadside makes reply;
Or else, as at the glorious Nile,
Hold grappling ships, that strive the while
For death or victory?

Hurrah! -cling, clang!— once more, what glows,
Dark brothers of the forge, beneath
The iron tempest of your blows,
The furnace's red breath?

Clang, clang!-a burning torrent, clear And brilliant of bright sparks, is poured Around, and up in the dusky air,

As our hammers forge the sword.

The sword! a name of dread; yet when
Upon the freeman's thigh 'tis bound-
While for his altar and his hearth,
While for the land that gave him birth,
The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound —
How sacred is it then!

Whenever for the truth and right
It flashes in the van of fight —
Whether in some wild mountain-pass,
As that where fell Leonidas:
Or on some sterile plain and stern,
A Marston, or a Bannockburn;
Or amidst crags and bursting rills,
The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills;
Or as when sunk the Armada's pride,
It gleams above the stormy tide —