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Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;

The belovéd, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherish'd
Noble longings for the strife,

By the road-side fell and perish'd,
Weary with the march of life

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,

Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more

And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,

More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,

Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes,

Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.

Utter'd not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

Oh, though oft depress'd and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died


This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnish'd arms;

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villagers with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
When the death-angel touches those swift keys'

What loud lament and dismal Miserere
Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,

Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song,

And loud, amid the universal clamor,
O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin;

The tumult of each sack'd and burning village;
The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;

The soldier's revels in the midst of pillage;
The wail of famine in beleaguer'd towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrench'd asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With such accurséd instruments as these,

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth bestow'd on camps and courts,

Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals nor forts:

The warrior's name would be a name abhorréd
And every nation that should lift again

Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain ' '

Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease;

And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, “Peace l’

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies!

But beautiful as songs of the immortals,
The holy melodies of love arise.


Maiden with the meek, brown eyes,
In whose orbs a shadow lies
Like the dusk in evening skies!

Would that the ninth and tenth verses of this fine poem might be engraved upon the mind and heart of every man and woman, in both hemispheres, that speaks the English tongue !

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Beware The Israelite of old, who tore
The lion in his path, when, poor and blind,
He saw the blessed light of heaven no more,
Shorn of his noble strength, and forced to grind
In prison, and, at last, led forth to be
A pander to Philistine revelry;

Upon the pillars of the temple laid
His desperate hands, and in its overthrow
Destroy'd himself, and with him those who made
A cruel mockery of his sightless woe;
The poor blind slave, the scoff and jest of all,
Expired, and thousands perish’d in the fall!

There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of steel, Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, And shake the pillars of this commonweal, Till the vast temple of our liberties . A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies.


The shades of night were falling fast,

As through an Alpine village pass'd

A youth, who bore 'mid snow and ice,

A banner with the strange device,

His brow was sad: his eye beneath

Flash'd like a falchion from its sheath,

And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue,

In happy homes he saw the light

Of household fires gleam warm and bright;

Above, the spectral glaciers shone,

And from his lips escaped a groan,

“Try not the pass!” the old man said;

“Dark lowers the tempest overhead :

The roaring torrent is deep and wide."

And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior |

“Oh, stay,” the maiden said, “and rest

Thy weary head upon this breast !”

A tear stood in his bright blue eye,

But still he answer'd, with a sigh,
Excelsior "

“Beware the pine-tree's wither'd branch :

Beware the awful avalanche '''

This was the peasant's last good-night;

A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior "

At break of day, as heavenward

The pious monks of Saint Bernard

Utter'd the oft-repeated prayer,

A voice cried through the startled air,

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
- Excelsior

There, in the twilight cold and gray,

Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,

And from the sky, serene and far,

A voice fell, like a falling star,
Excelsior |


Time has a Doomsday-Book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But, as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced. These are the high nobility of Nature, Lords of the Public Domain of Thought. Posterity shall never question their titles. But those, whose fame lives only in the indiscreet opinion of unwise men, must soon be as well forgotten as if they had never been. To this great oblivion must most men come. It is better, therefore, that they should soon make up their minds to this: well knowing that, as their bodies must ere long be resolved into dust again, and their graves tell no tales of them, so must their names likewise be utterly forgotten, and their most cherished thoughts, purposes, and opinions have no longer an individual being among men; but be resolved and incorporated into the universe of thought.

Yes, it is better that men should soon make up their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or within them, for some higher motive, in what they do, than the approbation of men, which is Fame; namely, their duty; that they should be constantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself. Difficult must this indeed be, in our imperfection; impossible, perhaps, to achieve it wholly. Yet the resolute, the indomitable will of man can achieve much,--at times even this victory over himself,

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