COURAGE.

When, but for those, our mighty dead,
All ages påst å blank would be ;
Sunk in Oblivion's1 mûrky bed—

A deşert bâre-a shipless sea!
They are the distant objects seen,
The lofty marks of what hath been.
3. Oh, who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name,
When memory of the mighty dead
To earth-wōrn pilgrim's wistful eye
The brightest rays of cheering shed,
That point to immortality!

C

II.

114. COURAGE.

OURAGE!—Nothing can withstand
Long ȧ wronged, undäunted land,

If the hearts within her be

True unto themselves and thec,
Thou freed giant, Liberty!

Oh, no mountain-nymph art thou
When the helm is on thy brow,
And the sword is in thy hand,
Fighting for thy own good land.
2. Courage-Nothing e'er withstood
Freemen fighting for their good;
Armed with all their fathers' fame,
They will win and weâr a name,
That shall go to endless glory,
Like the gods of ōld Greek stōry,
Raised to Heaven and heavenly worth,
For the good they gave to earth.

1 Ob liv'i on, cessation of remembrance; forgetfulness.

2 Joanna Baillie, à British dramatic poetess, was born in Lanarkshire, Scotland, Oct. 27, 1761, and died at Hampstead, near London,

315

BAILLIE.

Feb. 23, 1851. Her complete poetical works, in one large volume, appeared in 1850.

3 Undaunted (un dänt'ed), not discouraged or måstered by fear; fearless brave.

3. Courage-Thêre is none so poor-
None of all who wrong endure--
None so humble, none so weak,
But may flush his father's cheek,
And his maiden's, dear and true,
With the deeds that he may do.
Be his days as dark as night,
He may make himself å light.
What though sunken be his sun-
There are stars when day is done!
4. Courage-Who will be å slave,
That hath strength to dig a grave,
And therein his fetters hide,
And lay a tyrant by his side?
Courage-Hope, howe'er he fly
For a time, can never die!
Courage, therefore, brother men!
Courage-To the fight again!

III.

B. W. PROCTER.

115. THE BRAVE AT HOME.

HE MAID who binds her warrior's sash,

ΤΗ

With smile that well her pain dissembles,
The while beneath her drooping lash

One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles-
Though Heaven ålōne records the tear,
And fame shall never know the story,
Her heart has shed å drop as dear

As e'er bedewed the field of glōry.

2. The wife who girds her husband's sword,
'Mid little ones who weep or wonder,
And bravely speaks the cheering word—
What though her heart be rent åsǎnder,
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear
The bōlts of death around him rattle,
Hath shed as sacred blood as ĉ'er

Was poured upon a field of battle!

I GIVE MY SOLDIER-BOY A BLADE. 317

3. The mother who conceals her grief,

While to her breast her son she presses,
Then breathes a few brave words and brief,
Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,
With no one but her secret God

To know the pain that weighs upon her,
Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod

Received on Freedom's field of honor!

IV.

T. B. READ.

116. I GIVE MY SOLDIER-BOY A BLADE.

1

I

GIVE my soldier-boy å blade;

In fair Damascus fashioned well:
Who first the glittering falchion swayed,
Who first beneath its fury fell,

I know not, but I hope to know
That for no mean or hireling: trade,
To guard no feeling base or low,
I gave my soldier-boy å blade.

2. Cool, cälm, and clear, the lucid 1 flood.
In which its tempering work was done;
As calm, as clear, as cool of mood,
Be thou whene'er it sees the sun;
For country's claim, at honor's call,
For outraged friend, insulted maid,
At mercy's voice to bid it fall,

I give my soldier-boy a blade.

3. The eye which marked its peerlèss edge,
The hand that weighed its balanced poise,
Anvil and pincers, fōrge and wedge,

Are gone with all their flaming noise-
And still the gleaming swōrd remains ;
So, when in dust I low am laid,
Remember, by these heartfelt strains,
I gave my soldier-boy å blade.

Lu'cid, shining; bright; clear. 2 William Maginn, a British author, was born in Cork, Nov.11,1794, and died in Walton-on-Thames, near

MAGINN.?

London, Aug. 21, 1842. His numerous and valuable papers for magazines were generally marked by wit and scholarship.

V.

117. CATO'S SPEECH OVER HIS DEAD SON.

HANKS to the gods! my boy has done his duty.-
Welcome, my son! Here set him down, my friends,
Full in my sight; that I may view at leisure
The bloody côrse, and count those glorious wounds.
How beautiful is death, when earned by virtue!
Who would not be that youth ?-what pity is it
That we can die but once to serve our country!
2. Why sits this sadness on your brow, my friends?
I should have blushed if Cato's1 house had stood
Secure, and floŭrished in a civil war—

Pōrciüs,2 behold thy brother! and remember,
Thy life is not thy own when Rome demands it!
When Rome demands!-but Rome is now no more!
The Roman empire's fallen !—(Oh, cûrsed ambition !)—
Fallen into Cæsar's hands! Our great forefathers
Had left him nôught to conquer but his country.—

3. Pōrciüs, come hither to me !-Ah! my son,

Despairing of success,

Let me advise thee to withdraw, betimes,

To our paternal seat, the Sabine field,

Where the great Censor toiled with his own hands,
And all our frugal ancestors were blessed

In humble virtues and a rural life.
There live retired content thyself to be
Obscurely good.

When vice prevails, and impious men beâr sway,
The post of honor is å private station!

4. Farewell, my friends! If there be any of you
Who dâre not trust the victor's clemency,

1 Marcus Porcius Cato, the great grandson of the Censor, was born 95 B. C. From his youth, he was celebrated for his bravery, virtue, and decision of character. After the defeat of the republican party by Cæsar, having provided for the

safety of his friends at Utica, he died by his own hand, agèd 49.

2 Marcus Porcius Cato, son of the preceding, was spâred by Cæsar, but finally died, the last of his race, nobly fighting for the liberty of Rome.

LIGHT.

Know, there are ships prepared by my commånd—
Their sails already opening to the winds-

That shall convey you to the wished-for port. The conqueror draws near—once more, fârewell! 5. If ê'er we meet hereåfter we shall meet

In happier climes, and on å safer shōre,
Where Cæsar never shall approach us more!
Thêre, the brave youth with love of virtue fired,
Who greatly in his country's cause expired,
Shall know he conquered !-The firm patriot there,
Who made the welfare of mankind his câre,
Though still by faction, vice, and fortune erossed,
Shall find the generous labor was not lost.

319

ADDISON.1

SECTION XXXII.

I.

118. LIGHT.

`HERE are many who will be ready to think that light is

TH

å věry tame and feeble instrumènt, because it is noiseless. An earthquake, for example, is to them a much more vigorous and effective agency. Hear how it comes thundering through the solid foundations of nature! It rocks a whole continent. The noblest works of man, cities, monuments, and temples, are in a moment leveled to the ground, or swallowed down the opening gulfs of fire.

2. Little do they think that the light of every morning, the soft and silent light, is an agent many times more powerful. But let the light of the morning cease and return no more: let the hour of morning come, and bring with it no dawn; the outcries of å horror-stricken world fill the âir, and make, as it were, the darknèss audible.

3. The beasts go wild and frantic at the loss of the sun. The vegetable growths turn pale and die. A chill creeps on, and

1 Joseph Addison, one of the most distinguished of English authors,

was born May 1, 1672, and died June 17, 1719.