"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made!" And he fashioned the first plowshare!

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 plowed the willing lands;
And sang, "Hurra for Tubal Cain!

Our staunch good friend is he;
And for the plowshare and the plow
To him our prize shall be!

But while oppression lifts its hand,
Or a tyrant would be lord,

Though we may thank him for the plow,
We'll not forget the sword!"

CHARLES MACKAY.

LXXII. -THE BEAUTIFUL.

WALK with the Beautiful and with the Grand;
Let nothing on the earth thy feet deter;
Sorrow may lead thee weeping by the hand,
But give not all thy bosom thoughts to her.
Walk with the Beautiful!

I hear thee say,

"The Beautiful! what is it?"
Be sure

O, thou art darkly ignorant!

'Tis no long, weary road, its form to visit,

For thou canst make it smile beside thy door.
Then love the Beautiful!

Ay, love it; 't is a sister that will bless,

And teach thee patience when thy heart is lonely;
The angels love it, for they wear its dress,

And thou art made a little lower only:
Then love the Beautiful'

Some boast its presence in a Grecian face;
Some in a favorite warbler of the skies;
But be not fooled! Whate'er thy eye may trace,
Seeking the Beautiful, it will arise:

Then seek it every where !

Thy bosom is its mint; the workmen are

Thy thoughts, and they must coin for thee. Believing

The Beautiful exists in every star,

Thou mak'st it so; and art thyself deceiving,

If otherwise thy faith.

I'll teach thee miracles. Walk on this heath,
And say to the neglected flowers, "Look up,
And be ye beautiful!" If thou hast faith.
They will obey thy word.

One thing I warn thee: bow no knee to gold;
Less innocent it makes the guileless tongue;
It turns the feelings prematurely old;

And they who keep their best affections young
Best love the Beautiful!

ADIEU! adieu! My native shore fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, and shrieks the wild

sea-mew.

Yon sun that sets upon the sea we follow in his flight;

Farewell a while to him and thee: my native land, good-night!

A few short hours, and he will rise to give the morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies, but not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall, my dog howls at the gate. Come hither, hither, my little page! why dost thou weep and wail? Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; our ship is swift and strong: Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly more merrily along.

"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high! I fear not wave nor wind; Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I am sorrowful in mind; For I have from my father gone, a mother whom I love,

And have no friend save these alone, but thee and One above.

My father blessed me fervently, yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh till I come back again." Enough, enough, my little lad! such tears become thine eye; If I thy guileless bosom had, mine own would not be dry. Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman! why dost thou look so pale?

Or dost thou dread a French foeman, or shiver at the gale? "Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak: But, thinking on an absent wife will blanch a faithful cheek.

The 7 in this word is unsounded, and the a has the sound of a in fall.

THE FATE OF THE FRIENDLESS.

381

"My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, along the bordering lake ;
And when they on their father call, what answer shall she make?”
Enough, enough, my yeoman good! thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, that am of lighter mood, will laugh to flee away.

And now I'm in the world alone, upon the wide, wide sea :
But why should I for others groan, when none will sigh for me 1
Perchance my dog will whine in vain, till fed by stranger-hands;
But, long ere I come back again, he 'd tear me where he stands.
With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, so not again to mine!
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! and when you fail

my

sight, Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves! My native land, good-night!

BYRON.

LXXIV.

THE FATE OF THE FRIENDLESS.

My life is like the summer rose,

That opens to the morning sky,

to die;

But ere the shades of evening close
Is scattered on the ground-
Yet on that rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept such waste to see-
But none shall weep a tear for me!

My life is like the autumn leaf

That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
Its hold is frail, its date is brief,

Restless, and soon to pass away;
Yet ere that leaf shall fall and fade,
The parent tree will mourn its shade;
The winds bewail the leafless tree
But none shall breathe a sigh for me!
My life is like the prints which feet

Have left on Tampa's desert strand ;
Soon as the rising tide shall beat,

All trace will vanish from the sand;
Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race,

On that lone shore loud moans the sea
But none, alas! shall mourn for me!

R. H. WILDE.

LXXV. — LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.

FROM life without freedom, say, who would not fly?
For one day of freedom, O! who would not die?
Hark! hark! 't is the trumpet! the call of the brave
The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave.
Our country lies bleeding-O! fly to her aid;
One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.
From life without freedom, O! who would not fly?
For one day of freedom, O! who would not die?

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains!
On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed
For virtue, for mankind, are heroes indeed.

And, O! even if Freedom from this world be driven,
Despair not at least we shall find her in heaven.

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains,
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains!

T. MOORE.

LXXVI. WAR THE GAME OF TYRANTS.

HARK! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?
Saw
ye not whom the recking saber smote,
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves?-The fires of death,
The bale-fires flash on high :- from rock to rock,

Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,

Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock!

Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;
Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon
Flashing afar, and at his iron feet

Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done; For, on this morn, three potent nations meet

To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;

Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;

BELIEF IN A FUTURE STATE.

Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
The foe, the victim, and the fond al-ly'
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,

Are met as if at home they could not die-
To feed the crow on Tal-a-ve'ra's plain,

And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.

There shall they rot- Ambition's honored fools!
Yes, Honor decks the turf that wraps their clay!
Vain sophistry! in these behold the tools,

The broken tools, that tyrants cast away
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way
With human hearts - to what? a dream alone.

Can despots compass aught that hails their sway?
Or call with truth one span of earth their own,
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?

383

BYRON.

LXXVII. - BELIEF IN A FUTURE STATE.

O! LIVES there, Heaven, beneath thy dread
One hapless, dark idolater of Chance,
Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined,
The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind;

expanse,

Who, mouldering earthward 'reft of every trust,
In joyless union wedded to the dust,
Could all his parting energy dismiss,

And call this barren world sufficient bliss?
There live, alas! of heaven-directed mien,
Of cultured soul and sapient'eye serene,
Who hail thee, man, the pilgrim of a day,
Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay,
Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower,
Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower;
A friendless slave, a child without a sire,
Whose mortal life and momentary fire
Light to the grave his chance-created form,
As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm;
And when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er,
To night and silence sink for evermore!
Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim,
Lights of the world, and demigods of Fame?