When, but for those, our mighty dead, Oh, who shall lightly say that Fame THE heart it hath its own estate- It needs not fortune to be great No matter which way fortune leans, A little mind hath little means A narrow heart is always poor. Stern fate the greatest still enthralls, And queens are not exempt from tears. The princely robe and beggar's coat, The scythe and sword, the plume and plough, Are in the grave of equal note Men live but in th' eternal "Now!" Still disappointment tracks the proud, 'Tis not the house that honour makes- So keep thou yet a generous heart, A steadfast and contented mind; And not till death consent to part With that which friend to friend doth bind. What's utter'd from the life within Is heard not by the life without; There's always something to begin 'Twixt life in faith and life in doubt. But grasp thou Truth, though bleak appears The rugged path her steps have trod; She'll be thy friend in other spheresCompanion in the world of God. Thus dwelling with the wise and goodThe rich in thought, the great in soulMan's mission may be understood, And part prove equal to the whole ! We know not half we may possess, The heart it hath its own estate, It needs not fortune to be great, While there's a coin surpassing gold! CHARLES SWAIN, 1803— UNKNOWN HEROES. OH! 'mid the dazzle and the glare Heroes whose names are scarcely breathed Who live unknown-unreck'd-of die- And genius, glory, love to shed And in verse or story consecrate Their own bright sons to Fame; Thus morn's glad halo hovers o'er Proud peaks that pierce the sky, While shrouded in oblivion's gloom The lowly valleys lie. Yet in the hidden vales of life There oft are Fortune's stern scowls met, With only God and Hope to cheer There have I seen strong men grow pale And Death the parent's fond hopes crush, While from the gloom the suff'rers look'd, And breathed, "Heaven's will be done!" God knows, Wealth's favourites ne'er can know The fortitude sublime That nerves the poor man's soul to keep The children of his heart, In looks of misery bid the tears 'Tis music to the soldier's soul Like the lonely bark that ploughs her way And sinks (unmark'd by all save Heaven) Earth's unknown heroes silently The world's rough tempest brave, And, gliding noteless o'er life's waste, sink Yet, what though unknown, ye warriors, if |