JAMES C. WOODS.

CCLVII.

THE SOUL STITHY.

My soul, asleep between its body-throes,

Mid leagues of darkness watched a furnace glare, And breastless arms that wrought laborious there,Power without plan, wherefrom no purpose grows,Welding white metal on a forge with blows,

Whence streamed the singing sparks like flaming hair, Which whirling gusts ever abroad would bear: And still the stithy hammers fell and rose.

And then I knew those sparks were souls of men,
And watched them driven like stars adown the wind.
A myriad died and left no trace to tell;

An hour like will-o'-the-wisps some lit the fen;
Now one would leave a trail of fire behind:

And still the stithy hammers rose and fell.

CCLVIII.

"FAIR STAR OF EVENING."

FAIR Star of Evening, Splendour of the West, Star of my country!-on the horizon's brink Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink On England's bosom : yet well pleased to rest, Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,

Should'st be my Country's emblem; and should'st

wink

Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, it is England; there it lies.
Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
One life, one glory! I with many a fear
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
Among men who do not love her, linger here.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

CCLIX.

ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE

VENETIAN REPUBLIC.

ONCE did She hold the gorgeous East in fee;
And was the safeguard of the West: the worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice, the Eldest Child of Liberty.
She was a Maiden City, bright and free;
No guile seduced, no force could violate;
And, when She took unto herself a Mate,
She must espouse the everlasting Sea.

And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay;
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid

When her long life hath reached its final day:

Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great, is passed away.

CCLX.

TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.

TOUSSAINT, thou most unhappy man of men!
Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den;
O miserable Chieftain! where and when
Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen Thyself, never to rise again,
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind

Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;

There's not a breathing of the common wind

That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;

Thy friends are exultations, agonies,

And love, and Man's unconquerable mind.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

CCLXI.

ON THE SUBJUGATION OF

SWITZERLAND.

Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,
One of the Mountains; each a mighty Voice:
In both from age to age Thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen Music, Liberty!
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee

Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly striven:
Thou from the Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.

Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft :
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left;
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be
That mountain Floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!