Driven by the northern gale with tempests fraught: And such is man; He hangs on greatness for a span, Life is-what? It is the sound of cannon near He frights and blusters for a span, Life is what? It is the swallow's sojournment, He rents his dwelling for a span, And is this life? Oh yes, and had I time to tell, A thousand shapes more transient still; But while I speak, fate whets his slaughterous knife: And this is man ; While reck'ning o'er life's little span, › Ir speaks to us, it teaches us-a mystery—a tone! We feel there is a silent voice that speaks to us alone: We cannot pass a blade of grass unheeded by the way, For it whispers to our thoughts, and we the silent voice obey. We climb the rugged mountain steep, we view the distant scene, Around, afar, beneath, the fields where Labor's sons have been; No hum of human voice is there; and yet can we depart, And hear not there the silent voice that whispers to the heart? We wander in the valleys, or we thread the mazy wood, Amid the giant oaks that time and tempest have withstood; The silent voice is speaking there in every leaf and bough, The voice that spoke in ages past, that speaks prophetic now. We view the Heaven's broad expanse; the cloudless realms afar Are eloquent; we hear a voice in every shining star; And sweetly falls that silent voice which speaks of Hope and Love, Like gentle dews upon the heart from Heaven's full urn above. The voiceless flowers have each a tone that through Creation rings, The silent brook a pleasant song that still of Nature sings; The light and shade-the passing years-the seasons, as they roll Mysterious are their voices, but they sink into the soul. We turn toward the glowing East, we mark the fading West; The silent voice still speaks to us, in labor or in rest. Along the mighty ocean borne, upon the flow'rclad sod, That sound unceasing speaks to us—that silent Voice is God! HOHENLINDEN. T. Campbell. ON Linden, when the sun was low, Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast array'd, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills, with thunder riven, Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow, Of Iser rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn !—but scarce yon level sun, Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens! And charge with all thy chivalry. Few! few, shall part where many meet, Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. MELROSE. Walter Scott. Ir thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, When the broken arches are black in night, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die, When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet hoots o'er the dead man's grave |