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As the spirit escaped with a mighty power
For, the delicate clay lay pale and chill,
And we heard a voice pronounce, "Be still,
"The bars of the grave through time must be
This sacred dust's protection;
But they who trust, shall find in me
THERE's blood on the laurel that wreathes his brow,
But the might of his arm shall lose its dread,
The plume must be stripp'd from the conqueror's head,
To nod o'er the conqueror's bier!
Alone he must march to the terrible fight,
His glory must set in an endless night,
He must measure the darksome valley alone,
Nor rod, nor staff help the traveller on,
He sinks! and none shall his requiem sound,
His head with a clod of the vale is crown'd,
His terrible spirit has spurn'd its clay,
And shivering, and naked hath past away
But who shall follow the fugitive home
Or, the curtain remove, when it veils the doom
"Oh! pull away,"
Did the maiden say,
"For who is the coward to mind
His bow he drew;
And the shafts they flew
Till the maiden was heard to cry,
"Oh! take this dart from my aching heart,
Dear Cupid! or else I die,
I die, I die,
Dear Cupid, or else I die!"
He said, and smiled,
"I am but a child,
And should have no skill to find,
E'en with both my eyes, where the dart now lies, Then, you know, fair maid, I'm blind,
I'm blind, I'm blind,
You know, fair maid, I'm blind!
But pray, be calm,
And I'll name a balm
That's brought by an older hand,
And I'm told is sure these wounds to cure ; 'Tis Hymen applies the band;
The band, the band, "Tis Hymen applies the band!
Now, I must not stay-
These fluttering things, my glistening wings,
To fly, to fly,
She tells me were made to fly!"
TO THE AUTOMATON CHESS PLAYER.
THOU wond'rous cause of speculation-
Of many a head, and many a nation-
Have tried their wits to answer whether
When first Iview'd thine awful face,
I marvell'd whether I had seen
A sudden shuddering seized my frame;
I deem'd thee form'd with power and will;
And curdled with a fearful chill,
Which made me tremble.
I thought if, e'en within thy glove,
That I should be transform'd, and see
When busy, curious, learn'd, and wise,
Thou giv'st them “check!"
Some say a little man resides
Between thy narrow, bony sides,
And round the world within thee rides:
For what's the human thing 't would lurk
Some whisper that thou 'rt him who fell
And lurid flame.
Thy keeper, then, deserves a pension
Now, though all Europe has confest
With all our intellectual sight,
That none should view thy nature right—
Our keen-eyed city.
Then just confide in me, and show,
But, mark me! if I should discover
H. W. LONGFELLOW
Is a native of the State of Maine, and one of the Professors in Bowdoin College. He is now in Europe.
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS, AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.
The standard of Count Pulaski, the noble Pole who fell in the attack upon Savannah, during the American Revolution, was of crimson silk, embroidered by the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem, in Pennsylvania.
WHEN the dying flame of day
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,
Take thy banner!—may it wave