Save this desponding one of mine,- Who bids for man's last friend, and best? Ah, were not mine a bankrupt life,
This treasure should my soul sustain! But Hope and Care are now at strife, Nor ever may unite again. Ambition, fashion, show and pride, I part from all forever now; Grief, in an overwhelming tide,
Has taught my haughty heart to bow. By Death, stern sheriff! all bereft,
I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod; The best of all I still have left, -
My Faith, my Bible, and my
45. ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL TAYLOR. -Robert T. Conrad.
WEEP not for him! The Thracians wisely gave Tears to the birth-couch, triumph to the grave. Weep not for him! Go, mark his high career; It knew no shame, no folly, and no fear. Nurtured to peril, lo! the peril came, To lead him on, from field to field, to fame. Weep not for him whose lustrous life has known No field of fame he has not made his own!
In many a fainting clime, in many a war, Still bright-browed Victory drew the patriot's car. Whether he met the dusk and prowling foe By oceanic Mississippi's flow;
Or where the Southern swamps, with steamy breath, Smite the worn warrior with no warrior's death! Or where, like surges on the rolling main, Squadron on squadron sweep the prairie plain, Dawn-and the field the haughty foe o'erspread; Sunset and Rio Grandé's waves ran red! Or where, from rock-ribbed safety, Monterey Frowns death, and dares him to the unequal fray; Till crashing walls and slippery streets bespeak How frail the fortress where the heart is weak; How vainly numbers menace, rocks defy, Men sternly knit, and firm to do or die; Or where on thousands thousands crowding rush (Rome knew not such a day) his ranks to crush, The long day paused on Buena Vista's height, Above the cloud with flashing volleys bright, Till angry Freedom, hovering o'er the fray, Swooped down, and made a new Thermopyla;-
In every scene of peril and of pain,
His were the toils, his country's was the gain. From field to field and all were nobly won- He bore, with eagle flight, her standard on; New stars rose there-
but never star grew dim While in his patriot grasp. Weep not for him! His was a spirit simple, grand and pure; Great to conceive, to do, and to endure; Yet the rough warrior was, in heart, a child, Rich in love's affluence, merciful and mild. His sterner traits, majestic and antique, Rivalled the stoic Roman or the Greek; Excelling both, he adds the Christian name, And Christian virtues make it more than fame.
To country, youth, age, love, life—all were given! In death, she lingered between him and Heaven; Thus spake the patriot, in his latest sigh, "MY DUTY DONE I DO NOT FEAR TO DIE!"
46. THE PASSAGE.-Uhland. Translated by Miss Austen.
MANY a year is in its grave
Since I crossed this restless wave, And the evening, fair as ever, Shines on ruin, rock and river.
Then, in this same boat, beside, Sat two comrades, old and tried ; One with all a father's truth, One with all the fire of youth.
One on earth in science wrought, And his grave in silence sought; But the younger, brighter form, Passed in battle and in storm.
So, whene'er I turn mine eye Back upon the days gone by,
Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, Friends who closed their course before me.
Yet what binds us, friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend?
Soul-like were those hours of
47. COURAGE. — Barry Cornwall.
COURAGE! Nothing can withstand Long a wronged, undaunted land, If the hearts within her be True unto themselves and thee, Thou freed giant, Liberty! O, no mountain-nymph art thou, When the helm is on thy brow, And the sword is in thy hand, Fighting for thy own good land!
Courage! Nothing e'er withstood Freemen fighting for their good; Armed with all their father's fame, They will win and wear a name, That shall go to endless glory, Like the Gods of old Greek story, Raised to Heaven and heavenly worth, For the good they gave to earth. Courage! There is none so poor (None of all who wrong endure), None so humble, none so weak, But may flush his father's cheek, And his maiden's dear and true, With the deeds that he may do. Be his days as dark as night, He may make himself a light. What though sunken be his sun? There are stars when day is done! Courage! Who will be a slave, That hath strength to dig a grave, And therein his fetters hide, And lay a tyrant by his side? Courage! - Hope, howe'er he fly For a time, can never die! Courage, therefore, brother men! Courage! To the fight again!
THE MOOR'S REVENGE. - Original Paraphrase from the Polish of Mickiewicz. BEFORE Grenada's fated walls, encamped in proud array, And flushed with many a victory, the Spanish army lay. Of all Grenada's fortresses but one defies their might: On Alphuara's minarets the crescent still is bright. Almanzor! King Almanzor! all vainly you resist : Your little band is fading fast away like morning mist, A direr foe than ever yet they met on battle-plain Assaults life's inmost citadel, and heaps the ground with slain.
One onset more of Spanish ranks, — and soon it will be made, And Alphuara's towers must reel, and in the dust be laid. "And shall the haughty infidel pollute this sacred land?” Almanzor said, as mournfully he marked his dwindling band. "Upon our glorious crescent shall the Spaniard set his heel? And is there not one lingering hope? Can Heaven no aid reveal? Ay, by our holy Prophet, now, one ally still remains!
And I will bind him close to me, for better death than chains!"
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The victors at the banquet sat, and music lent its cheer, When suddenly a sentry's voice announced a stranger near. From Alphuara had he come, with fierce, unwonted speed, And much it would import to Spain the news he bore to heed. "Admit him! cry the revellers; and in the pilgrim strode, And, throwing off his mantle loose, a Moorish habit showed! "Almanzor! King Almanzor!" they cried, with one acclaim: "Almanzor!" said the Moslem caief'; " Almanzor is my name. "To serve your prophet and your king, O Spaniards, I am here: Believe, reject me, if you will, this breast has outlived fear! No longer in his creed or cause Almanzor can confide;
For all the Powers above, 't is clear, are fighting on your side." "Now, welcome, welcome, gallant Moor!" the Spanish chieftain said: “Grenada's last intrenchment now we speedily shall tread. Approach, embrace; our waning feast thy coming shall renew; And in this cup of foaming wine we'll drink to yours and you." Right eagerly, to grasp the hands outstretched on every side, Almanzor rushed, and greeted each as bridegroom might his bride: He glued his fevered lips to theirs, he kissed them on the cheek, And breathed on all as if his heart would all its passion wreak. But suddenly his limbs relax, a flush comes o'er his face, He reels, as, with a pressure faint, he gives a last embrace; And livid, purple grows his skin, and wild his eyeballs roll, And some great torture seems to heave the life-roots of his soul.
Look, Giaours!* miscreants in race, and infidels in creed! Look on this pale, distorted face, and tell me what ye read!
These limbs convulsed, these fiery pangs, these eyeballs hot and blear Ha! know ye not what they portend? The plague, the plague, is here!
And it has sealed you for its own; ay, every Judas kiss
I gave shall bring anon to you an agony like this!
All art is vain your poisoned blood all leechcraft will defy,
Like me ye shall in anguish writhe like me in torture die "
Once more he stepped their chief to reach, and blast him with his breath;
But sank, as if Revenge itself were striving hard with Death.
And through the group a horrid thrill his words and aspect woke, When, with a proud, undaunted mien, their chief Alphonzo spoke "And deem'st thou, treacherous renegade, whatever may befall, These warriors true, these hearts of proof, Death ever can appall? Ay, writhe and toss, no taint of fear the sight to them can bring; Their souls are shrived, and Death himself for them has lost his sting. "Then let him come as gory War, with life-wounds deep and red, Or let him strike as fell Disease, with racking pains instead, Still in these spirits he shall find a power that shall defy All woe and pain that can but make the mortal body die.
So, brethren, leave this carrion here, nay, choke not with thy
And through our camps a note of cheer let every bugle call. We'll tear yon crescent from its tower ere stars are out to-night: And let Death come,· we 'll heed him not!
groan of rage upon his lips, Almanzor hid his head Beneath his mantle's ample fold, and soon was with the dead. But, roused by those intrepid words to death-defying zeal, The chieftains armed as if they longed to hear the clash of steel. The trumpets sounded merrily, while, dazzlingly arrayed, On Alphuara's walls they rushed, and low the crescent laid. And of the gallant, gallant hearts who thus grim Death defied, 'Mid pestilence and carnage, none of plague or battle died.
49. CHARADE ON THE NAME OF CAMPBELL, THE POET.-W. M. Praed. Born, 1807; died, 1845.
COME from my First, - ay, come! the battle dawn is nigh,
And the screaming trump and thundering drum are calling thee to die! Fight as thy father fought, fall as thy father fell;
Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought,
so forward, and farewell!
Toll ye my Second, toll! Fill high the flambeau's light, And sing the hymn of a parted soul, beneath the silent night. The wreath upon his head, the cross upon his breast, Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed,
ye my Whole, ay, call the lord of lute and lay, And let him greet the sable pall with a noble song to-day!
Go, call him by his name! -no fitter hand may crave
To light the flame of a soldier's fame, on the turf of a soldier's grave.
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