The Kaiser went in storm and night,
But ne'er returned in peace and light;
Astonished thousands asked his lot,
Love sought, and sought, but found him not;
But conscience did what conscience would,
And sealed its errand — blood for blood!
THE SUMMONS OF THE DESTROYER.
THE hour is come! the hour is come! With voice
Heard in thy inmost soul, I summon thee,
Cyrus, the Lord's anointed! And thou river,
That flowest exulting in thy proud approach
To Babylon, beneath whose shadowy walls,
And brazen gates, and gilded palaces,
And graves, that gleam with marble obelisks,
Thy azure bosom shall repose, with lights
Fretted and chequered like the starry heavens
I do arrest thee in thy stately course,
By Him that poured thee from thine ancient fountain,
And sent thee forth, even at the birth of time,
One of his holy streams, to lave the mounts
Of Paradise. Thou hear'st me; thou dost check
Abrupt thy waters, as the Arab chief
His headlong squadrons. Where the unobserved
Yet toiling Persian breaks the ruining mound,
I see thee gather thy tumultuous strength,
And, through the deep and roaring Naharmalcha,
Roll on, as proudly conscious of fulfilling
The omnipotent command! While, far away,
The lake, that slept but now so calm, nor moved,
Save the rippling moonshine, heaves on high
Its foaming surface like a whirlpool-gulf,
And boils and whitens with the unwonted tide.
But silent as thy billows used to flow,
And terrible, the hosts of Elam move,
Winding their darksome way profound, where man
Ne'er trod, nor light e'er shone, nor air from heaven
Breathed. Oh! ye secret and unfathomed depths,
How are ye now a smooth and royal way
For the army of God's vengeance! Fellow-slaves, And ministers of the eternal purpose,
Not guided by the treacherous, injured sons
Of Babylon, but by my mightier arm!
Ye come, and spread your banners, and display
Your glittering arms as ye advance, all white
Beneath the admiring moon! Come on! the gates
Are open
not for banqueters in blood
Like you! I see on either side o'erflow
The living deluge of armed men, and cry,
Begin, begin! with fire and sword begin
The work of wrath! Upon my shadowy wings
pause, and float a little while, to see
Mine human instruments fulfil my task
Of final ruin. Then I mount, I fly,
And sing my proud song, as I ride the clouds,
That stars may hear, and all the hosts of worlds, That live along the interminable space,
Take up Jehovah's everlasting triumph!
SATAN CALLING THE FALLEN ANGELS.
HE scarce had ceased, when the superior fiend
Was moving toward the shore, his ponderous shield
(Ethereal temper, massy, large and round,)
Behind him cast! The broad circumference
Hung on his shoulders, like the moon, whose orb,
Through optic glass, the Tuscan artist views,
At evening from the top of Fiesole,
Or in Voldarno, to descry new lands,
Rivers, or mountains, on her spotty globe.
His spear, to equal which the tallest pine
Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast
Of some great admiral, were but a wand,
He walked with to support uneasy steps
Over the burning marl: not like those steps
On heaven's azure! and the torrid clime
Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire.
Nathless he so endured till on the beach
Of that enflamed sea he stood, and called
His legions, angel forms, who lay, entranced,
Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks
In Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian shades,
High overarched, embower; or scattered sedge
Afloat, when the fierce winds Orion, armed,
Hath vexed the Red Sea coast, whose waves o'erthrew
Busiris and his Memphian chivalry,
While with perfidious hatred they pursued
The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld,
From the safe shore, their floating carcasses
And broken chariot wheels: so thick bestrown,
Abject and lost, lay these, covering the flood,
Under amazement of their hideous change.
He called so loud, that all the hollow deep
Of hell resounded. "Princes! Potentates!
Warriors! the flower of heaven-once yours, now lost-
If such astonishment as this can seize
Eternal spirits or have ye chosen this place,
To slumber here, as in the vales of heaven?
Or in this abject posture have you sworn
To adore the Conqueror? who now beholds
Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood,
With scattered arms and ensigns. Till anon,
His swift pursuers, from heaven's gates discern
The advantage, and, descending, tread us down
Thus drooping; or with linked thunderbolts
Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf.
Awake! arise! or be forever fallen!"
WATER, BRIGHT WATER FOR ME!
OH! water for me! bright water for me,
And wine for the tremulous debauchee!
It cooleth the brow, it cooleth the brain,
It maketh the faint one strong again;
It comes o'er the sense like a breeze from the sea,
All freshness, like infant purity;
Oh! water, bright water, for me, for me!
Give wine, give wine to the debauchee!
Fill to the brim! Fill, fill to the brim!
For water strengtheneth life and limb;
To the days of the aged it addeth length;
To the might of the strong it addeth strength;
It freshens the heart, it brightens the sight,
'Tis quaffing a goblet of morning light.
So, water, I will drink nought but thee,
When o'er the hills, like a gladsome bride,
Morning walks forth in her beauty's pride,
And, leading a band of laughing hours,
Brushes the dew from the morning flowers;
Oh! cheerily then my voice is heard,
Mingling with that of the soaring bird,
Who flingeth abroad his matins loud,
As he freshens his wing in the cold gray
But when evening has quitted her sheltering yew, Drowsily flying, and weaving anew
Her dusky meshes o'er land and sea,
How gently, O sleep, fall the poppies on me!
For I drink water, pure, cold, and bright,
dreams are of heaven the livelong night; So, hurrah for thee, water! hurrah! hurrah! Thou art silver and gold, thou art riband and star! Hurrah for bright water! Hurrah, hurrah!
A SUPERCILIOUs nabob of the east
Haughty, being great-purse-proud, being rich, governor, or general, at the least,
I have forgotten which—
Had in his family a humble youth,
Who went from England in his patron's suite,
An unassuming boy, and in truth
A lad of decent parts, and good repute.
This youth had sense and spirit;
But yet, with all his sense,
Excessive diffidence
Obscured his merit.
One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,
His honor, proudly free, severely merry,
Conceived it would be vastly fine
To crack a joke upon his secretary.
"Young man," he said, "by what art, craft or trade, Did your good father gain a livelihood?”.
"He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said,
"And in his time was reckoned good."-
"A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek,
Instead of teaching you to sew!
Pray, why did not your father make
A saddler, sir, of you?"
Each parasite, then, as in duty bound,
The joke applauded, and the laugh went round.
At length Modestus, bowing low,
Said, (craving pardon, if too free he made,)
Sir, by your leave, I fain would know
"My father's trade! by heaven, that's too bad!
My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad?
My father, sir, did never stoop so low-
He was a gentleman, I'd have
"Excuse the liberty I take,"
Modestus said, with archness on his brow, "Pray, why did not your father make
A gentleman of you?"
THE Pilgrim Mothers! Where are they?
Their frames are dust, their souls in heaven;
Yet shall their memory pass away,
Nor praise to their good deeds be given ?
"Teach infant lips to sing their name,'
(Ten thousand ready tongues reply ;)
And give their noble acts to fame,
Though now in silent dust they lie!
They severed fond affection's chain,
And looked and listened o'er and o'er,
On forms they might not see again,
To voices they might hear no more;
Then tore their bleeding hearts away
From peaceful homes beyond the sea,
|