ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, ΕΤΟΝ. YE distant spires, ye antique towers, Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales, that from ye blow, As waving fresh their gladsome My weary soul they seem to sooth, To breathe a second spring. Say, Father Thames (for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race, Disporting on thy margent green, The paths of pleasure trace), Who foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arm thy glassy wave? The captive linnet which enthral? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball? While some, on earnest business bent, To sweeten liberty: And unknown regions dare de sery, Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy. Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast: Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new, And lively cheer, of vigor born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light That fly the approach of morn. Alas! regardless of their doom The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day: Yet see how all around them wait The ministers of human fate And black misfortune's baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murderous band! Ah, tell them they are men! These shall the fury passions tear, And shame that skulks behind; Or pining love shall waste their youth, Or jealousy with rankling tooth That inly gnaws the secret heart, And envy wan, and faded care, Grim-visaged comfortless despair, And sorrow's piercing dart. Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high To bitter scorn a sacrifice And grinning infamy. The stings of falsehood those shail try, And hard unkindness' altered eye, That mocks the tear it forced to This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every laboring sinew strains, To each his sufferings: all are men, The tender for another's pain, Since sorrow never comes too late, No more, where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise. ZADEL BARNES GUSTAFSON. LITTLE MARTIN CRAGHAN. ONE reads to me Macaulay's "Lays" With fervid voice, intoning well The poet's fire, the vocal grace; They hold me like a spell. 'Twere marvel if in human veins Could beat a pulse so cold It would not quicken to the strains, The flying, fiery strains, that tell How Romans "kept the bridge so well In the brave days of old." The while I listened, till my blood, Plunged in the poet's martial mood, Rushed in my veins like wine, I prayed, to One who hears, I wis; "Give me one breath of power like this To sing of Pittston mine!" A child looks up the ragged shaft, That feeds the eager flame. He has a single chance; the stakes For while his trembling hand is raised, The thought of those unwarned, to whom Death steals along the mine. O little Martin Craghan! By gods of mythic lore; And that your bare brown feet scarce felt The way they bounded o'er. I know you were a hero then, Whate'er you were before; And in God's sight your flying feet Made white the cavern floor. The while he speeds that darksome way, Hope paints upon his fears Soft visions of the light of day; Faint songs of birds he hears; In summer breeze his tangled curls Are blown about his ears. He sees the men; he warns; and now, His duty bravely done, Sweet hope may paint the fairest scene That spreads beneath the sun. Back to the burning shaft he flies; Illumed their faces, steeled each O'erwritten with the names he loved, heart. O God! what mysteries Of brave and base make sum and part Of human histories! What will not thy poor creatures do To buy an hour of breath! He wept a little,- for they heard Clasped to his little side, Dim eyes the wooden record read Hours after he had died. Thus from all knowledge of his kind. And, while they listened for the feet stood, And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band. "Strike-till the last armed foe exStrike-for your altars and your pires; fires; Strike for the green graves of your sires: GOD, and your native land!" They fought,-like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain; They conquered - but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won: Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose, Like flowers at set of sun. There had the glad earth drunk their Come to the bridal chamber, Death! blood On old Platea's day; And now there breathed that haunted air Come to the mother's, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come in Consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm; Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet-song, and dance, and wine; The groan, the knell, the pall, the And thou art terrible- the tear, And all we know, or dream, or fear, bier, Of agony, are thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, |