Who sued so humbly for relief,
That I could never answer, "Nay:"
I had not power to ask his name,
Whither he went, or whence he came,
Yet was there something in his eye,
That won my love, I knew not why.
Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He enter'd ;-not a word he spake ;-
Just perishing for want of bread;
I gave him all; he bless'd it, brake,
And ate, but gave me part again;
Mine was an Angel's portion then,
For while I fed with eager haste,
That crust was manna to my taste.
I spied him, where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock; his strength was gone;
The heedless water mock'd his thirst,
He heard it, saw it hurrying on:
I ran to raise the sufferer up;
Thrice from the stream he drain'd my cup,
Dipt, and return'd it running o'er;
I drank, and never thirsted more.
"Twas night; the floods were out; it blew A winter hurricane aloof;
I heard his voice abroad, and flew
To bid him welcome to my roof;
I warm'd, I clothed, I cheer'd my guest,
Laid him on my own couch to rest;
Then made the hearth my bed, and seem'd
In Eden's garden while I dream'd.
Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death,
I found him by the highway-side :
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath,
Revived his spirit, and supplied
Wine, oil, refreshment; he was heal'd;
I had myself a wound conceal'd;
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And Peace bound up my broken heart.
In prison I saw him next, condemn'd
To meet a traitor's doom at morn;
The tide of lying tongues I stemm'd,
And honor'd him 'midst shame and scorn:
My friendship's utmost zeal to try,
He ask'd, if I for him would die;
The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill,
But the free spirit cried, "I will."
Then in a moment to my view
The Stranger darted from disguise,
The tokens in his hands I knew,
My Savior stood before mine eyes:
He spake; and my poor name He named;
Of me thou hast not been ashamed:
These deeds shall thy memorial be;
Fear not, thou didst them unto Me."
Scene.-Bridlington Quay, 1824.
Ar nightfall, walking on the cliff-crown'd shore,
Where sea and sky were in each other lost;
Dark ships were scudding through the wild uproar,
Whose wrecks ere morn must strew the dreary coast!
I mark'd one well-moor'd vessel tempest-tost,
Sails reef'd, helm lash'd,-a dreadful siege she bore;
Her deck by billow after billow cross'd,
While every moment she might be no more:
Yet firmly anchor'd on the nether sand,
Like a chain'd lion ramping at his foes,
Forward and rearward still she plunged and rose,
Till broke her cable;-then she fled to land,
With all the waves in chase; throes following throes;
She 'scaped, she struck,-she stood upon the strand.
The morn was beautiful, the storm gone by;
Three days had pass'd; I saw the peaceful main,
One molten mirror, one illumined plane,
Clear as the blue, sublime, o'er-arching sky:
On shore that lonely vessel caught mine eye,
Her bow was sea-ward, all equipt her train,
Yet to the sun she spread her wings in vain,
Like a chain'd eagle, impotent to fly;
There fix'd as if for ever to abide :
Far down the beach had roll'd the low neap-tide, Whose mingling murmur faintly lull'd the ear:
'Is this," methought, "is this the doom of pride, Check'd in the onset of thy brave career, Ingloriously to rot by piecemeal here?"
Spring-tides return'd, and Fortune smiled: the bay
Received the rushing ocean to its breast;
While waves on waves innumerably prest,
Seem'd, with the prancing of their proud array,
Sea-horses, flash'd with foam, and snorting spray;
Their power and thunder broke that vessel's rest;
Slowly, with new expanding life possest,
To her own element she glid away;
Buoyant and bounding like the polar whale,
That takes his pastime; every joyful sail
Was to the freedom of the wind unfurl'd,
While right and left the parted surges curl'd:
-Go, gallant bark, with such a tide and gale,
I'll pledge thee to a voyage round the world.
ROBERT BURNS.
WHAT bird in beauty, flight, or song,
Can with the bard compare,
Who sang as sweet, and soar'd as strong
As ever child of air?
His plume, his note, his form, could BURNS, For whim or pleasure change;
He was not one, but all by turns,
With transmigration strange.
The black-bird, oracle of spring,
When flow'd his moral lay;
The swallow, wheeling on the wing,
Capriciously at play :
The Humming-bird, from bloom to bloom,
Inhaling heavenly balm;
The Raven, in the tempest's gloom;
The Halcyon, in the calm:
In "auld Kirk Alloway," the Owl,
At witching time of night;
By "bonnie Doon," the earliest Fowl
That caroll'd to the light.
He was the Wren amidst the grove,
When in his homely vein;
At Bannockburn the Bird of Jove,
With thunder in his train:
The Wood-lark, in his mournful hours; The Goldfinch, in his mirth;
The Thrush, a spendthrift of his powers,
Enrapturing heaven and earth;
The Swan, in majesty and grace,
Contemplative and still;
But, roused,-no Falcon in the chase,
Could like his satire kill.
The Linnet in simplicity,
In tenderness the Dove;
But more than all beside was he,
The Nightingale in love.
Oh! had he never stoop'd to shame,
Nor lent a charm to vice,
How had devotion loved to name
That Bird of Paradise!
Peace to the dead!-In Scotia's choir
Of Minstrels great and small,
He sprang from his spontaneous fire,
The Phoenix of them all.
A THEME FOR A POET.-1814.
THE arrow that shall lay me low,
Was shot from Death's unerring bow
The moment of my breath;
And every footstep I proceed,
It tracks me with increasing speed:
I turn,-it meets me,-Death
Has given such impulse to that dart,
It points for ever at my heart.
And soon of me it must be said,
That I have lived, that I am dead:
Of all I leave behind,
A few may weep a little while,
Then bless my memory with a smile;
What monument of mind
Shall I bequeath to deathless Fame,
That after-times may love my name?
Let Southey sing of war's alarms,
The pride of battle, din of arms,
The glory and the guilt,—
Of nations barb'rously enslaved,
Of realms by patriot valor saved,
Of blood insanely spilt,
And millions sacrificed to fate,
To make one little mortal great.
Let Scott, in wilder strains, delight
To chaunt the Lady and the Knight,
The tournament, the chase,
The wizard's deed without a name,
Perils by ambush, flood, and flame;
Or picturesquely trace
The hills that form a world on high,
The lake that seems a downward sky.
Let Byron with untrembling hand,
Impetuous foot, and fiery brand,
Lit at the flames of hell,
Go down and search the human heart,
Till fiends from every corner start,
Their crimes and plagues to tell;
Then let him fling the torch away,
And sun his soul in heaven's pure day.
Let Wordsworth weave, in mystic rhyme,
Feelings ineffably sublime,
And sympathies unknown;
Yet so our yielding breasts enthral,
His Genius shall possess us all,
His thoughts become our own,
And, strangely pleased, we start to find
Such hidden treasures in our mind.
Let Campbell's sweeter numbers flow
Through every change of joy and woe;
Hope's morning dreams display,
The Pennsylvanian cottage wild,
The frenzy of O'Connor's child,
Or Linden's dreadful day;
And still in each new form appear
To every Muse and Grace more dear.
Transcendent masters of the lyre!
Not to your honors I aspire;
Humbler, yet higher, views
Have touch'd my spirit into flame:
The pomp of Fiction I disclaim;
Fair Truth! be thou my Muse-
Reveal in splendor deeds obscure,
A base the proud, exalt the poor.
I sing the men who left their home,
Amidst barbarian hordes to roam,
Who land and ocean cross'd,
Led by a load-star, mark'd on high
By Faith's unseen, all-seeing eye,—
To seek and save the lost;
Where'er the curse on Adam spread.
To call his offspring from the dead.
Strong in the great Redeemer's name,
They bore the cross, despised the shame.
And, like their Master here,
Wrestled with danger, pain, distress,
Hunger, and cold, and nakedness, And every form of fear;
To feel his love their only joy,
To tell that love their sole employ.
O Thou, who wast in Bethlehem born,
The Man of sorrows and of scorn,
Jesus, the sinners' Friend!
-O Thou, enthroned in filial right,
Above all creature-power and might;
Whose kingdom shall extend,
Till earth, like heaven, thy name shall fill,
And men, like angels, do thy will:-
Thou, whom I love, but cannot see,
My Lord, my God! look down on me;
My low affections raise;
The spirit of liberty impart,
Enlarge my soul, inflame my heart,
And, while I spread thy praise,
Shine on my path, in mercy shine,
Prosper my work, and make it thine.
Night is the time to think:
When, from the eye, the soul
Takes flight; and on the utmost brink Of yonder starry pole,
Discerns beyond the abyss of night
The dawn of uncreated light.
Night is the time to pray :
Our Savior oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away;
So will his follower do,
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And commune there alone with God.
Night is the time for Death:
When all around is peace,
Calmly to yield the weary breath,
From sin and suffering cease,
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends;-such death be mine.
NIGHT is the time for rest:
How sweet, when labors close,
To gather round an aching breast
The curtain of repose,
Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head
Down on our own delightful bed!
Night is the time for dreams:
The gay romance of life,
When truth that is, and truth that seems,
Mix in fantastic strife:
Ah! visions, less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight are!
Night is the time for toil:
To plow the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil
Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, and heroes wrought.
Night is the time to weep:
To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of Memory, where sleep
The joys of other years;
Hopes, that were Angels at their birth,
But died when young, like things of earth.
Night is the time to watch:
O'er ocean's dark expanse,
To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance,
That brings into the home-sick mind
All we have loved and left behind.
Night is the time for care:
Brooding on hours misspent,
To see the spectre of Despair
Come to our lonely tent;
Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host,
Summon'd to die by Cæsar's ghost.
How blest the Pilgrim, who in trouble
Can lean upon a bosom friend;
Strength, courage, hope, with him redouble,
When foes assail, or griefs impend;
Care flees before his footsteps, straying,
At daybreak, o'er the purple heath;
He plucks the wild flowers round him playing,
And binds their beauty in a wreath.
More dear to him the fields and mountains,
When with his friend abroad he roves,
Rests in the shade near sunny fountains,
Or talks by moonlight through the groves:
For him the vine expands its clusters,
Spring wakes for him her woodland quire,
Yea, when the storm of winter blusters,
"Tis summer round his evening fire.
In good old age serenely dying,
When all he loved forsakes his view,
Sweet is Affection's voice, replying
"I follow soon," to his " Adieu!"
Even then, though earthly ties are riven,
The spirit's union will not end;
Germania from afar
Invokes her sons to war;
Awake! put forth your powers,
And victory must be ours.
On to the combat, on!
Go where your sires have gone: Their might unspent remains, Their pulse is in our veins.
On to the battle, on!
Rest will be sweet anon;
The slave may yield, may fly,
We conquer, or we die.
O Liberty! thy form
Shines through the battle-storm;
Away with fear, away!
Let justice win the day.
WHERE are ye with whom in life I started,
Dear companions of my golden days?
Ye are dead, estranged from me, or parted,
-Flown, like morning clouds, a thousand ways.
Where art thou, in youth my friend and brother,
Yea, in soul my friend and brother still?
Heaven received thee, and on earth none other
Can the void in my lorn bosom fill.
Where is she, whose looks were love and gladness!
-Love and gladness I no longer see!
She is gone; and since that hour of sadness,
Nature seems her sepulchre to me.
Where am I?-life's current, faintly flowing,
Brings the welcome warning of release;
Struck with death, ah! whither am I going?
All is well-my spirit parts in peace.
YOUTH, fond youth! to thee in life's gay morning,
New and wonderful are heaven and earth;
Health the hills, content the fields adorning,
Nature rings with melody and mirth;
Love invisible, beneath, above,
-Happy the man, whom Heaven hath given, Conquers all things; all things yield to love.
In life and death, a faithful friend.
GERMAN WAR-SONG.'
HEAVEN speed the righteous sword,
And freedom be the word!
Come, brethren! hand in hand,
Fight for your father-land.
1 The simple and sublime original of these stanzas, with the fine air by Himmel, became the national song of Germany, and was sung by the soldiers especially, during the latter campaigns of the war, when Buonaparte was twice dethroned, and Europe finally delivered from French predominance.
Time, swift time, from years their motion stealing,
Unperceived hath sober manhood brought;
Truth, her pure and humble forms revealing,
Peoples fancy's fairy-land with thought;
Then the heart, no longer prone to roam,
Loves, loves best, the quiet bliss of home.
Age, old age, in sickness, pain, and sorrow,
Creeps with lengthening shadow o'er the scene;
Life was yesterday, 't is death to-morrow,
And to-day the agony between :
Then how longs the weary soul for thee.
Bright and beautiful eternity!
ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH.
HIGHER, higher will we climb
Up the mount of glory,
That our names may live through time
In our country's story:
Happy, when her welfare calls,
He who conquers, he who falls.
Deeper, deeper let us toil
In the mines of knowledge—
Nature's wealth and learning's spoil
Win from school and college;
Delve we there for richer gems
Than the stars of diadems.
Onward, onward will we press
Through the path of duty;
Virtue is true happiness,
Excellence true beauty:
Minds are of supernal birth,
Let us make a heaven of earth.
Close and closer then we knit
Hearts and hands together,
Where our fire-side comforts sit
In the wildest weather:
Oh! they wander wide, who roam,
For the joys of life, from home.
Nearer, dearer bands of love
Draw our souls in union,
To our Father's house above,
To the saints' communion;
Thither every hope ascend,
There may all our labors end.
WHOSE is this humble dwelling-place,
The flat turf-roof with flowers o'ergrown?
Ah! here the tenant's name I trace,
Moss-cover'd, on the threshold stone.
Well, he has peace within and rest,
Though nought of all the world beside;
Yet, stranger! deem not him unblest,
Who knows not avarice, lust, or pride.
Nothing he asks, nothing he cares
For all that tempts or troubles round;
He craves no feast, no finery wears,
Nor once o'ersteps his narrow bound.
No need of light, though all be gloom,
To cheer his eye,-that eye is blind;
No need of fire in this small room,
He recks not tempest, rain, or wind.
No gay companion here; no wife
To gladden home with true-love smiles;
No children, from the woes of life,
To win him with their artless wiles.
Nor joy, nor sorrow, enter here,
Nor throbbing heart, nor aching limb;
No sun, no moon, no stars appear,
And man and brute are nought to him.
This dwelling is a hermit's cave, With space alone for one poor bed; This dwelling is a mortal's grave,
Its sole inhabitant is dead.
THE FALLING LEAF.
WERE I a trembling leaf,
On yonder stately tree,
After a season gay and brief,
Condemn'd to fade and flee;
I should be loth to fall
Beside the common way,
Weltering in mire, and spurn'd by all,
Till trodden down to clay.
Nor would I choose to die
All on a bed of grass,
Where thousands of my kindred lie,
And idly rot in mass.
Nor would I like to spread
My thin and wither'd face
In hortus siccus, pale and dead,
A mummy of my race.
No, on the wings of air
Might I be left to fly,
I know not and I heed not where,
A waif of earth and sky!
Or flung upon the stream,
Curl'd like a fairy-boat,
As through the changes of a dream,
To the world's end to float!
Who that hath ever been,
Could bear to be no more?
Yet who would tread again the scene He trod through life before?
On, with intense desire,
Man's spirit will move on;
It seems to die, yet, like Heaven's fire,
It is not quench'd, but gone.
ON PLANTING A TULIP-ROOT. HERE lies a bulb, the child of earth, Buried alive beneath the clod, Ere long to spring, by second birth, A new and nobler work of God.
"Tis said that microscopic power
Might through its swaddling-folds descry The infant-image of the flower,
Too exquisite to meet the eye.
This, vernal suns and rains will swell,
Till from its dark abode it peep,
Like Venus rising from her shell,
Amidst the spring-tide of the deep.
Two shapely leaves will first unfold,
Then, on a smooth, elastic stem,
The verdant bud shall turn to gold,
And open in a diadem.
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