SUGGESTED BY A STATUE EXECUTED The aged scholar, pale and wan, BY MR. ROGERS IN FLORENCE. FROM age to age, from clime to clime, A spirit, bright as her own morn, She walks the golden fields of Time, As erst amid the yellow corn. A form o'er which the hallowed veil Of years bequeaths a lovelier light, Was there within the marshalled line, And, jostled by the noisy van, The poet with his voice divine:— No more could tomes the sage beguile; The bard no longer wooed the praise That dribbles from a monarch's smile, For now they sang the "Marseillaise !" And break these galling fetters from our feet, To lead us up from Time's benighted shore? Is it for love of this dark cell of dust, Which, tenantless, awakes but horror and disgust? Long have I mused upon all lovely things: But thou, oh Death! art lovelier than all; Thou sheddest from thy recompensing wings A glory which is hidden by the pall The excess of radiance falling from thy plume Throws from the gates of Time a shadow on the tomb. SONG OF THE SERF. I KNOW a lofty lady, And she is wondrous fair; She hath wrought my soul to music As the leaves are wrought by air; And like the air that wakes The foliage into play, She feels no thrill of all she makes When she has passed away. I know a lofty lady Who seldom looks on me, Or when she smiles, her smile is like The moon's upon the sea. As proudly and serene She shines from her domain, Till my spirit heaves beneath her mien, And floods my aching brain. I know a lofty lady : But I would not wake her scorn By telling all the love I bear, For I am lowly born; So low, and she so high And the space between us spread Makes me but as the weeds that lie Beneath her stately tread. BALBOA. FROM San Domingo's crowded wharf Fernandez' vessel bore, To seek in unknown lands afar The Indian's golden ore. And hid among the freighted casks, Where none might see or know, Was one of Spain's immortal men, Three hundred years ago! But when the fading town and land And not a fear had he! "What villain thou?" Fernandez cried, "And wherefore serve us so ?" "To be thy follower," he replied, Three hundred years ago. He wore a manly form and face, His words fell on his comrades' hearts, They saw not his ambitious soul; He stood among the common ranks, But when Fernandez' vessel lay At golden Darien, A murmur, born of discontent, Grew loud among the men: And with the word there came the act; And with the sudden blow They raised Balboa from the ranks, Three hundred years ago. And while he took command beneath The banner of his lord, A mighty purpose grasped his soul, He saw the mountain's fair blue height He led them up through tangled brakes, The rivulet's sliding bed, And through the storm of poisoned darts From many an ambush shed. He gained the turret crag-alone- An ocean, boundless and unknown, And while he raised upon that height Then down he rushed with all his men, As headlong rivers flow, And while he held above his head He waved his gleaming sword, and smote The waters of the main : For Rome! for Leon! and Castile! Thrice gave the cleaving blow; And thus Balboa claimed the sea, Three hundred years ago. LABOR. "LABOR, labor!" sounds the anvil, "Labor, labor, until death!" And the file, with voice discordant, Labor, endless labor!" saith. While the bellows to the embers Speak of labor in each breath. "Labor, labor!" in the harvest, Saith the whetting of the scythe, And the mill-wheel tells of labor Under waters falling blithe; "Labor, labor!" groan the millstones, To the bands that whirl and writhe. And the woodman tells of labor, 'Tis the dearest word he knows. "Labor, labor!" saith the spirit, And with labor comes repose. "Labor!" saith the loaded wagon, Moving toward the distant mart. "Labor!" groans the heavy steamer, As she cleaves the waves apart. Beating like that iron engine, 66 Labor, labor!" cries the heart. Yes, the heart of man cries "labor!" In the Word which He hath blest, Sayeth, "Six days shalt thou labor, On the seventh thou shalt rest!" Then how beautiful at evening, When the toilsome week is done, To behold the blacksmith's anvil Die in darkness with the sun; And to think the doors of labor Are all closing up like one. THE WINDY NIGHT. ALOW and aloof, Over the roof, How the midnight tempests howl! With a dreary voice, like the dismal tune Of wolves that bay at the desert moon; Or whistle and shriek Through limbs that creak, "Tu-who! tu-whit!" They cry and flit, A DIRGE FOR A DEAD BIRD. THE cage hangs at the window, There's the sunshine on the sill; But where the form and where the voice That never till now were still? The sweet voice hath departed From its feathery home of gold, The little form of yellow dust Lies motionless and cold! "Tu-whit! tu-who!" like the solemn Oh, where amid the azure owl! Hath thy sweet spirit fled? I hold my breath and think I hear Its music overhead. Death has not hushed thy spirit, Its joy shall vanish never; The slightest thrill of pleasure born Lives on and lives forever! Throughout the gloomy winter But now thy songs are silent, Except what memory brings; For thou hast folded death within The glory of thy wings! And here thy resting-place shall be A bush shall be thy monument, THE WITHERING LEAVES. THE summer is gone and the autumn is here, And the flowers are strewing their earthly bier; A dreary mist o'er the woodland swims, While rattle the nuts from the windy limbs : From bough to bough the squirrels run At the noise of the hunter's echoing gun, And the partridge flies where my footstep heaves The rustling drifts of the withering leaves. |