"'Pity' thee! So I do!

I pity the dumb victim at the altar-- But does the robed priest for his pity falter?

I'd rack thee, though I knew A thousand lives were perishing in thine-- What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?

"But, there's a deathless name!

A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn, And, like a steadfast planet, mount and burn-- And though its crown of flame Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone-- By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!

"Ay--though it bid me rifle My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst-- Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first-- Though it should bid me stifle The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, And taunt its mother till my brain went wild--

"All--I would do it all-- Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot-- Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!

O heavens!--but I appall Your heart, old man!--forgive--ha! on your lives Let him not faint! rack him till he revives!

"Vain--vain--give o'er. His eye Glazes apace. He does not feel you now-- Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow!

G.o.ds! if he do not die, But for one moment--one--till I eclipse Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!

"Shivering! Hark! he mutters Brokenly now--that was a difficult breath-- Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death?

Look! how his temple flutters!

Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!

He shudders--gasps--Jove help him--so--he's dead."

How like a mounting devil in the heart Rules the unreined ambition! Let it once But play the monarch, and its haughty brow Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought, And enthrones peace forever. Putting on The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns The heart to ashes, and with not a spring Left in the bosom for the spirit's life, We look upon our splendor, and forget The thirst of which we perish!

Oh, if earth be all, and heaven nothing, What thrice mocked fools are we!

N. P. Willis.

CLXX.

CASABIANCA.

The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead.

The flames rolled on. He would not go Without his father's word; That father faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud: "say, father, say If yet my task is done!"

He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!"

And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death In still, yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud, "My father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child Like banners in the sky.

Then came a burst of thunder sound-- The boy--oh! where was he!

Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strewed the sea,

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part; But the n.o.blest thing that perished there Was that young faithful heart!

Mrs. Hemans.

CLXXI.

THE BENDED BOW.

There was heard the sound of a coming foe, There was sent through Britain a bended bow; And a voice was poured on the free winds far,

As the land rose up at the sound of war: Heard ye not the battle horn?

Reaper! leave thy golden corn!

Leave it for the birds of heaven; Swords must flash, and spears be riven: Leave it for the winds to shed,-- Arm! ere Britain's turf grows red!

And the reaper armed, like a freeman's son; And the bended bow and the voice pa.s.sed on.

Hunter! leave the mountain chase!

Take the falchion from its place!

Let the wolf go free to-day; Leave him for a n.o.bler prey!

Let the deer ungalled sweep by,-- Arm thee! Britain's foes are nigh!

And the hunter armed, ere the chase was done; And the bended bow and the voice pa.s.sed on.

Chieftain! quit the joyous feast!

Stay not till the song hath ceased: Though the mead be foaming bright, Though the fire gives ruddy light, Leave the hearth and leave the hall,-- Arm thee! Britain's foes must fall!

And the chieftain armed, and the horn was blown; And the bended bow and the voice pa.s.sed on.

Prince! thy father's deeds are told In the bower and in the hold, Where the goatherd's lay is sung, Where the minstrel's harp is strung!

Foes are on thy native sea,-- Give our bards a tale of thee!

And the prince came armed, like a leader's son; And the bended bow and the voice pa.s.sed on.

Mother! stay thou not thy boy!

He must learn the battle's joy.

Sister! bring the sword and spear, Give thy brother words of cheer!

Maiden! bid thy lover part; Britain calls the strong in heart!

And the bended bow and the voice pa.s.sed on; And the bards made song of a battle won.

Mrs. Hemans.

CLXXII.

THE BETTER LAND.

"I hear thee speak of the better land, Thou call'st its children a happy band; Mother! O where is that radiant sh.o.r.e?-- Shall we not seek it and weep no more?-- Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies glance thro' the myrtle boughs?"

--"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?

Or midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange, bright birds, on starry wings, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"

--"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?-- Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?"

Is it there, sweet mother! that better land?"

--"Not there, not there, my child!"