Vain sophistry! in these behold the tools, The broken tools, that tyrants cast away By myriads, when they dare to pave their way With human hearts-to what?-a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone. Ex. CXXVI.—THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. JOHN G. WHITTIER. Look on him-through his dungeon grate, His hand upholds his drooping head- His long, disheveled locks of snow. What has the gray-haired prisoner done? God made the old man poor! For this he shares a felon's cell- For this the boon for which he poured And so, for such a place of rest, Old prisoner, poured thy blood as rain Look forth, thou man of many scars, Go, ring the bells and fire the guns, And when the patriot cannon jars Ex. CXXVII-THE BELLS. HEAR the sledges with the bells, Silver bells! EDGAR A, rum. What a world of merriment their melody foretells! In the icy air of night! In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding bells,- What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle dove, that listens, while she gloats Oh! from out the sounding cells, How it dwells On the future !-how it tells To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! Hear the loud alarum bells,— What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! How they scream out their affright! Out of time, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, And a resolute endeavor What a tale their terror tells How they clang, and clash, and roar! On the bosom of the palpitating air! And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; In the jangling And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells,In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats, As he knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells,— To the tolling of the bells, To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. Ex. CXXVIII.-THE MOSQUITO. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. FAIR insect! that, with thread-like legs spread out, In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing, Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse, Full angrily men hearken to thy plaint; Thou gettest many a brush and many a curse, For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint: I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween, Thou comest from Jersey meadows, fresh and green, The ocean-nymph that nursed thy infancy. Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung, And when, at length, thy gauzy wings grew strong, Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung, Rose in the sky, and bore thee soft along; The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way, Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence Came the deep murmur of its throng of men, And as its grateful odors met thy sense, They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen. Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight. At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway- By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray Shone through the snowy vails like stars through mist; And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin. |