TO A DAISY ON THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND.
A WORD with thee, white daughter of the sun! I pause and wonder whether earth or sky Keeps thee so beautiful to human eye. Hast thou no sister-solemn as a nun,
And serious as a mourner-who could make A dwelling on this grave? for thou dost grow Too like the likeness of a bride to take A place so near dark death. And yet not so! Thou never couldst in holier beauty wake To grace the home of one who sleeps below. Who sleeps below was truthful while he lived, And is it sympathy which draws thee here? If I were sure an angel ever grieved, Then I would prize thee as an angel's tear.
The conclusion of EDWIN ATHERSTONE's fine epic poem with this title.
THE work was done. The fitful whirlwind, like a bird of prey
Full gorged, soared upwards, bearing on its wings Dense smoke, and clouds of fire. Far off it flew, Angrily murmuring; and in distance died.
The earth no more was shaken: save the voice Of the great conflagration, all was still.
When from the ground the millions rose, behold!
No stone upon another seemed to stand!
Where, in the pride of power, and boundless pomp, Long ages had been throned the Eastern Queen, Raged now a sea of flame unquenchable!
Awe-struck, and sad, the gathered nations gazed; Then, as one soul had ruled them, turned aside, And bowed the head, and wept. The crown of earth, Her glory and her sunshine, seemed at once
Shattered, and quenched! the brightest star of heaven Darkened, and fallen!
The plaintive moaning of the wintry wind, Pervading far and wide, through midnight sounds, So, from that countless multitude, the voice
Of wailing, and of lamentation deep,
Rose on the stirless air.
Erect, exulting, on the ruin gazed- The priest Belesis; for, accomplished now, The visions and the prophecies of years He saw before him. On the arm he touched The sorrowing Mede; and, with an eye of fire, And countenance of triumph glowing bright, Pointed, and proudly smiled. Arbaces looked, Yet breathed no word; but shook the head, and wept. Throughout the night was heard the voice of woe: None to his fellows, save in whisper, spake;
None from his place removed.
And then, like mourners who long time have bent O'er the dark grave, and bid the last farewell,
To needful tasks they went.
Nine days, and nights, Streamed up the flames; and still the downcast hosts Lingered to watch and weep. But on the morn Of the tenth day, tow'rds Babylon, new seat Of Eastern power, 'gan flow the human sea. On the broad summits of the southern hills, At eve the army camped; still full in view Of that great burning. But no more the flames Their hands triumphant lifted. One vast sheet As 'twere a lake of molten iron, lay,
Voiceless, and motionless; with glare intense Dying eve's sober raiment.
Heaven's flood-gates wide were opened; and came down Heavy, unceasing rain. Down, down, still down,
Straight as a plummet's course, the broad, close drops Unceasingly came down.
Day rose; but dark As winter's twilight; still was heard no sound, Save the great boiling of the ponderous flood. Noon came,-a deep eclipse! yet stirred no man.
Eve passed; and night-a pitchy blackness-fell; Yet still down, down, the unremitting rain Poured in thick torrents down!
Tow'rds break of day Again heaven's flood-gates closed; and when grey light Was in the sky, from their close shelter came The wearied millions, and looked forth. The spacious plain seemed now an inland sea: In midst thereof an island, low, and dark, And like a caldron steaming. Where, so late, Palace, and tower, and temple; battlement, And rock-like wall, deemed everlasting, stood Now, yon black waste of smouldering ashes lay! So sank, to endless night, that glorious Nineveh!
THE POWER OF THE BARDS.
This spirited ballad is taken from a volume of American poems, by P. P. COOKE.
WISDOM, and pomp, and valour, And love and martial glory- These gleam up from the shadows Of England's elder story.
If thou would'st pierce those shadows Dark on her life of old,
Follow where march her minstrels, With music sweet and bold.
Right faithfully they guide us The darksome way along, Driving the ghosts of ruin
With joyous harp and song.
They raise up clearest visions, To greet us everywhere- They bring the brave old voices To stir the sunny air.
We see the ships of conquest White on the narrow sea; We mark from Battle Abbey, The plumes of Normandy.
We see the royal Rufus
Go out the chase to lead- Wat Tyrrel's flying arrow- The dead king's flying steed. We go with gallant Henry, Stealing to Woodstock bower, To meet his gentle mistress, In twilight's starry hour.
We see Blondel and Richard, We hear the lays they sing; We mark the dames adjudging Betwixt the bard and king.
We join the iron barons, Doing that famous deed- Wringing the great old charter From John at Runnymede.
We ride with Harry Monmouth, On Shrewsbury's bloody bounds; We hear the fat knight's moral, On Percy Hotspur's wounds.
We mark the banner'd roses- The red rose, and the white, And Crookback's barbed charger Foaming in Barnet fight.
We see bluff Harry Tudor,
To royal Windsor ride,
With fair-neck'd Bullen reining A palfrey at his side.
We join Queen Bess, the virgin, And prancingly go forth, To hold that stately revel, At stately Kenilworth.
We join the ruder revels,
Under the greenwood tree,
Where outlaw songs are chanted,
And cans clink merrily.
We join the curtal friar, And doughty Robin Hood, And Scathelock, and the Miller, At feast in green Sherwood.
We greet Maid Marian bringing The collops of the deer, And pitchers of metheglin
To crown the woodland cheer.
We lie down with the robbers At coming of the dark, We rise with their uprising, At singing of the lark,
And, blending with his matins, We hear the abbey chimes— The chimes of the stately abbeys Of the proud priestly times.
And owe we not these visions Fresh to the natural eye- This presence in old story- To the good art and high ?—
The high art of the poet, The maker of the lays ? Doth not his magic lead us Back to the ancient days?
For evermore be honour'd The voices sweet and bold, That thus can charm the shadows From the true life of old.
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