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God give thee, father, words to beg-
BY J. G. PERCIVAL.
He sleeps, forgetful of his once bright fame;
And yet not all forgotten sleeps he there;
Seemed living with the crown of light he wore ;
He sleeps, and yet, around the sightless eye
There hovers still the light of other days;
He will not sleep forever, but will rise
Fresh to more daring labors; now, even now, As the close shrouding mist of morning flies, The gathered slumber leaves his lifted brow; From his half-opened eye, in fuller beams, His wakened spirit streams.
Yes, he will break his sleep; the spell is gone;
Keen as the famished eagle darts her wing;
He rushes forth to conquer: shall they take-
When he forgot the contest-shall they take,
Now he renews the race, the victor's bay; Still let them strive-when he collects his might, He will assert his right. .
The spirit cannot always sleep in dust,
Whose essence is ethereal; they may try To darken and degrade it; it may rust
Dimly awhile, but cannot wholly die; And, when it wakens, it will send its fire Intenser forth and higher.
BY J. G. PERCIVAL.
SLUMBER'S heavy chain hath bound thee-
Feebler wings are gathering round thee—
Can no power, no spell, recall thee
Thine was once the highest pinion
In the midway air;
With a proud and sure dominion,
Thou didst upward bear.
Like the herald, winged with lightning,
Ever mounting, ever brightening,
Thou wert there alone.
Where the pillared props of heaven
Where no darkling clouds are driven,
Far above the rolling thunder,
When the surging storm
Rent its sulphury folds asunder,
O, what rare and heavenly brightness
As a cascade's foamy whiteness
Wheeling through the shadowy ocean,
With serene and placid motion,
From that cloudless region stooping,
Up again undaunted soaring,
Thou didst pierce the cloud,
When the warring winds were roaring
Fearfully and loud.
Where is now that restless longing
After higher things?
Come they not, like visions, thronging
On their airy wings?
Why should not their glow enchant thee
Upward to their bliss?
Surely danger cannot daunt thee
From a heaven like this.
But thou slumberest; faint and quivering
Hangs thy ruffled wing;
Like a dove in winter shivering,
Or a feebler thing.
Where is now thy might and motion,
Thy imperial flight?
Where is now thy heart's devotion?
Where thy spirit's light?
Hark! his rustling plumage gathers
Closer to his side,
Close, as when the storm-bird weathers
Ocean's hurrying tide.
Now his nodding beak is steady
Wide his burning eye—
Now his opening wings are ready,
And his aim-how high!
Now he curves his neck, and proudly
Through the rock and storm,
Glorious bird, thy dream has left thee
Thou hast reached thy heaven-
Of the glory given.
With a bold, a fearless pinion,
On thy starry road,
None, to fame's supreme dominion,