« AnteriorContinuar »
From the hundred chimneys of the village,
For its freedom
Wife and husband,
As he heard them
Drives an exile
But we cannot
But Catawba wine
Has a taste more divine,
There grows no vine
By the haunted Rhine,
By Danube or Guadalquivir,
Nor on island or cape,
That bears such a grape
Drugged is their juice
For foreign use,
When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic,
To rack our brains
With the fever pains,
frantic. Of whose purple blood
To the sewers and sinks
With all such drinks,
And after thein tumble the mixer ;
For a poison malign
Or at best but a Devil's Elixir.
While pure as a spring
Is the wine I sing.
And to praise it, one needs but name it;
For Catawba wine
Has need of no sign,
No tavern-bush to proclaim it.
And this Song of the Vine,
This greeting of mine, humming.
The winds and the birds shall deliver
To the Queen of the West,
In her garlands dressed,
DAYBREAK. A WIND came up out of the sea,
It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, And said, “O mists, make room for And said, “O bird, awake and sing."
And o'er the farnis, “O chanticleer, It bailed the ships, and cried, “Sail | | Your clarion blow; the day is near."
It whispered to the fields of corn, Ye mariners, the night is gone."
“ Bow down, and hail the coming morn." And hurried landward far away,
It shouted through the belfry-tower, Crying, “Awake! it is the day.”
“Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.” It said unto the forest, “Shout! It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, Hang all your leafy banners out!” | And said, “Not yet I in quiet lie.”
WHENE'ER a noble deed is wrought, Pass through the glimmering gloom,
And slow, as in a dream of bliss,
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss The tidal wave of deeper souls
Her shadow, as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.
As if a door in heaven should be
Opened and then closed suddenly,
The light shone and was spent.
On England's annals, through the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,
From portals of the past.
A Lady with a Lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
Nor even shall be wanting here
The palm, the lily, and the spear, Lo! in that house of misery
The symbols that of yore A lady with a lamp I see
Saint Filomena bore.
THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ.
May 28, 1857. It was fifty years ago,
And whenever the way seemed long, In the pleasant month of May, Or bis heart began to fail, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,
She would sing a more wonderful song, A child in its cradle lay.
Or tell a more marvellous tale. And Nature, the old nurse, took So she keeps him still a child, The child upon her knee,
And will not let him go, Saying: “Here is a story-book Though at times his heart beats wild
Thy Father has written for thee.” For the beautiful Pays de Vaud; 6. Come, wander with me," she said, Though at times he hears in his dreams
“Into regions yet untrod; | The Ranz des Vaches of old, And read what is still unread
And the rush of mountain streams In the manuscripts of God.”
From glaciers clear and cold ; And he wandered away and away And the mother at home says, “Hark!
With Nature, the dear old nurse, For bis voice I listen and yearn ; Who sang to him night and day | It is growing late and dark, The rhymes of the universe.
And my boy does not return !”
THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE.
A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED'S OROSIUS.
OTHERE, the old sea-captain, | “Of Iceland and of Greenland,
And the stormy Hebrides,
“To the northward stretched the de. His figure was tall and stately,
sert, Like a boy's his eye appeared ;
How far I fain would know; His hair was yellow as hay,
So at last I sallied forth, But threads of a silvery grey
And three days sailed due north, Gleamed in his tawny beard.
As far as the whale-ships go. Hearty and hale was Othere,
“To the west of me was the ocean, His cheek had the colour of oak;
To the right the desolate shore,
For the walrus or the whale,
Till after three days more.
Till they became as one,
I saw the sullen blaze
Of the red midnight sun. “So far I live to the northward, “ And then uprose before me, No man lives north of me;
Upon the water's edge, To the east are wild mountain-chains,
The huge and haggard shape And beyond them meres and plains ; Of that unknown North Cape, To the westward all is sea.
Whose form is like a wedge. “ So far I live to the northward, “The sea was rough and stormy,
From the harbour of Skeringes-hale, The tempest howled and wailed, If you only sailed by day,
And the sea-fog, like a ghost, With a fair wind all the way,
Haunted that dreary coast, More than a month would you sail. But onward still I sailed. “I own six hundred reindeer,
“Four days I steered to eastward, With sheep and swine beside;
Four days without a night : I have tribute from the Finns,
Round in a fiery ring Whalebone and reindeer-skins,
Went the great sun, O King, And ropes of walrus-hide.
With red and lurid light.”
“I ploughed the land with horses,
But my heart was ill at ease,
With their sagas of the seas;
Here Alfred, King of the Saxons,
Ceased writing for a wbile ;
And an incredulous smile.
| We killed of them threescore,
And dragged them to the strand !"
Here Alfred, the Truth-Teller,
Suddenly closed his book,
Depicted in their look.
But Othere, the old sea-captain,
He neither paused nor stirred,
And wrote down every word.
“ Bent south ward suddenly, And I followed the curving shore, And ever soutbward bore
Into a nameless sea.
The narwhale, and the seal;
Flew our harpoons of steel.
Norsemen of Helgoland;
And Othere the old sea-captain
Stared at him wild and weird,
His tawny, quivering beard.
And to the King of the Saxons,
In witness of the truth,
“Behold this walrus-tooth !"
COME to me, Oye children !
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood,
That to the world are children ;
| Through them it feels the glow Ye open the eastern windows,
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.
Come to me, Oye children !
And whisper in my ear In your hearts are the birds and the What the birds and the winds are singsunshine,
For what are all our contrivings,
| And the wisdom of our books, Ah! what would the world be to us, When compared with your caresses, If the children were no more?
And the gladness of your looks ?
Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said ;
And all the rest are dead.