« السابقةمتابعة »
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side
So live, that, when thy summons comes to join
THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE. Within this lowly grave a conqueror lies;
And yet the monument proclaims it not,
Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought The emblems of a fame that never dies, – Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheat, Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf.
A simple name alone,
To the great world unknown,
Lean lovingly against the humble stone.
Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart
No man of iron mold and bloody hands,
Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands The passions that consumed his restless heart; But one of tender spirit and delicate frame,
Gentlest in mien and mind
Of gentle womankind,
Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May;
Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away.
Nor deem, that, when the hand that molders here. Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear,
And armies mustered at the sign, as when
Gray captains leading bands of veteran men
Alone her task was wrought;
Alone the battle fought : Through that long strife her constant hope was stayed On God alone, nor looked for other aid.
She met the hosts of sorrow with a look
That altered not beneath the frown they wore; And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took
Meekly her gentle rule, and frowned no more. Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath,
And calmly broke in twain
The fiery shafts of pain,
By that victorious hand despair was slain.
Her glory is not of this shadowy state,
Glory that with the fleeting season dies; But, when she entered at the sapphire gate,
What joy was radiant in celestial eyes! How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung, And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung!
And He who, long before,
Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore,
See! as I linger here, the sun grows low;
Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near.
Brief is the time, I know,
The warfare scarce begun;
The victors' naines are yet too few to fill
That ministered to thee is opened still.
Thou unrelenting Past !
And tetters sure and fast
· Far in thy realm withdrawn,
And glorious ages gone
Childhood with all its mirth,
And, last, man's life on earth,
Thou hast my better years;
Yielded to thee with tears;
My spirit yearns to bring
And struggles hard to wring
In vain : thy gates deny
Nor to the streaining eye
In thy abysses hide
Earth's wonder and her pride
Labors of good to man;
Love that 'midst grief began,
Full many a mighty name
With thee are silent fame,
Thine for a space are they :
Thy gates shall yet give way,
All that of good and fair
Shall then come forth to wear
They have not perished : no!
Smiles radiant long ago,
All shall come back ; each tie
Alone shall Evil die,
And then shall I behold
And her who, still and cold,
THE EVENING WIND.
SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day! Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow:
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea !
Nor I alone : a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fullness of delight;
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
Lies the vast inland, stretched beyond the sight.
Go rock the little wood-bird in his nest;
Curl the still waters bright with stars; and rouse
Summoning from the innumerable boughs
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The faint old man shall lean his silver head
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
Go: but the circle of eternal change,
Which is the life of Nature, shall restore,
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;
Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He bears the rustling leaf and running stream.
Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd; And fiery hearts and armèd hands
Encountered in the battle-cloud. Ah! never shall the land forget
How gushed the life-blood of her brave, Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save! Now all is calm and fresh and still :
Alone the chirp of fitting bird, And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine, are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry:
Oh, be it never heard again!
Who minglest in the harder strife
Thy warfare only ends with life, —
Through weary day and weary year: A wild and many-weaponed throng
Hang on thy front and flank and rear. Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot. The timid good may stand aloof;
The sage may frown: yet faint thou not, Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ;
The victory of endurance born.
The eternal years of God are hers:
And dies among his worshipers.