THE BOWL OF LIBERTY. 35 THE BOWL OF LIBERTY. (FOR MODERN GREECE). BEFORE the fiery sun, The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye, Amidst the tombs they stood, The tombs of heroes! with the solemn skies They call'd the glorious dead, In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh, They call'd them from the shades, The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell Then fast the bright-red wine Flow'd to their names who taught the world to die, Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty. 36 THOUGHT, LIFE, AND DEATH. So the rejoicing earth Took from her vines again the blood she gave, We have the battle-fields, The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky, Mrs. Hemans. THOUGHT, LIFE, AND DEATH. HAST thou seen, with flash incessant, Bodied forth and evanescent, No one knows by what device? Such are Thoughts. A wind-swept meadow Mimicking a troubled sea— Such is Life; and Death, a shadow From the rock, Eternity. W. Wordsworth. LIFE AND FAME. 37 LIFE AND FAME. THE flash at midnight!-'twas a light Then closed as in the tomb: An angel might have passed my bed, So life appears;-a sudden birth, So fame the poet's hope deceives, Life is a lightning-flash of breath; James Montgomery. 33 NEVERMORE, NEVERMORE. O WORLD! O life! O time! Trembling at that where I had stood before,— No more-Oh, never more! Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight: Fresh spring, and summer, autumn, and winter hoar, P. B. Shelley. SUSPIRIA. TAKE them, O Death! and bear away Take them, O Grave! and let them lie Take them, O great Eternity! That bends the branches of thy tree, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. DEATH'S HARVEST-TIME. 39 DEATH'S HARVEST-TIME. LEAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! Day is for mortal care; Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth; The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine; Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! We know when moons shall wane, When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, |