All radiant from his triumph in the fight;
The shaft hath just been shot-the arrow bright
With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye
And nostril, beautiful disdain, and might,
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by,
Developing in that one glance the deity!
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.*-POPE.
VITAL spark of heav'nly flame,
Quit, oh! quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,—
O the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!
Hark! they whisper; angels say,-
"Sister spirit, come away!"
What is this absorbs me quite,-
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ?—
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes, it disappears,
Heav'n opens on my eyes,-my ears
With sounds seraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount, I fly!
O death, where is thy sting,
O grave, where is thy victory?
* The difficulty of delivering this exquisite little piece with proper effect, is that of preserving the feeble and failing tone of the dying man, and yet conveying the enthusiastic confidence of the hopeful Christian. The reader must bear in mind these two phases of expression.
AFTER THE BATTLE.-MOORE.
NIGHT closed around the conqueror's way,
And lightnings show'd the distant hill,
Where those who lost that dreadful day
Stood, few and faint, but fearless still!
The soldier's hope, the patron's zeal,
For ever dimm'd, for ever cross'd— Oh! who shall say what heroes feel, When all but life and honor's lost!
The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
And valor's task, moved slowly by,
While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam
Should rise and give them light to die !—
There is a world where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss;
If death that world's bright opening be,
Oh! who would live a slave in this?
THOU whose spell can raise the dead,
Bid the prophet's form appear,-
“Samuel, raise thy buried head!
King, behold the phantom seer!"
Earth yawn'd; he stood, the centre of a cloud;
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud.
Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye;
His hand was wither'd, and his veins were dry;
His foot, in bony whiteness glitter'd there,
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare;
From lips that moved not, and unbreathing frame,
Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came.
Saul saw, and fell to earth,-as falls the oak,
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke!
"Why is my sleep disquieted?
Who is he that calls the dead?
Is it thou, O king? Behold,
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold:
Such are mine; and such shall be
Thine to-morrow, when with me:
Ere the coming day be done,
Such shalt thou be, such thy son!
Fare thee well! but for a day,
Then we mix our mouldering clay;
Then thy race, lie pale and low,
Pierced by shafts of many a bow;
And the falchion by thy side
To thy heart thy hand shall guide ;
Crownless, breathless, headless, fall
Son and sire, the house of Saul!"
Now stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height, O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of the fight. Sought with bold eye amid the bloody strife, Her dearer self, the partner of her life; From hill to hill the rushing host pursued, And viewed his banner, or believed she viewed. Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led; And one fair girl, amid the loud alarm, Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm;
While round her brows bright beams of honor dart, And love's warm eddies circle round her heart.
Near and more near the intrepid beauty prest,
Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest;
Saw on his helm, her virgin hands inwove,
Bright stars of gold, and mystic knots of love;
Heard the exulting shout, "They run, they run!"
"Great heav'n !" she cried, "he's safe! the battle's won!' A ball now hisses through the airy tides,
(Some fury winged it, and some demon guides!)
Parts the fine locks her graceful head that deck,
Wounds her fair ear and sinks into her neck;
The red stream issuing from her azure veins,
Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains.
'Ah me!" she cried, and sinking on the ground,
Kiss'd her dear babes, regardless of the wound;
"Oh! cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn!
Wait, gushing life, oh wait my love's retnrn!"
Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far;
The angel Pity shuns the ranks of war!
"Oh! spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age;
On me, on me," she cried, "exhaust your rage !"
Then with weak arms her weeping babes caress'd,
And, sighing, hid them in her blood-stain'd vest.
-From tent to tent the impatient warrior flies,
Fear in his heart and frenzy in his eyes;
Eliza's name along the camp he calls,—
"Eliza" echoes through the canvass walls.
Quick through the murmuring gloom his footsteps tread,
O'er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead;
Vault o'er the plain, and in the tangled wood
Lo! dead Eliza weltering in her blood!
Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds,
With open arms and sparkling eye he bounds;
"Speak low," he cries, and gives his little hand,
"Eliza sleeps upon the dew-cold sand:"
Poor weeping babe with bloody fingers press'd,
And tried with pouting lips, her milkless breast:
"Alas! we both with cold and hunger quake-
Why do you weep? Mamma will soon awake."—
"She'll wake no more!" the hapless mourner cried,
Upturn'd his eyes, and clasp'd his hands and sigh'd;
Stretch'd on the ground awhile entranced he lay,
And press'd warm kisses on the lifeless clay:
And then upsprung, with wild convulsive start,
And all the father kindled in his heart:
"Oh heavens!" he cried, "my first rash vow forgive;
These bind to earth, for these I pray to live!"
Round his chill babes he wrapt his crimson vest,
And clasp'd them sobbing to his aching breast.
NIGHT is the time for rest:
How sweet when labors close,
To gather round an aching breast
The curtain of repose,—
Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head
Upon our own delightful bed!
Night is the time for dreams:
The gay romance of life,
When truth that is, and truth that seems,
Blend in fantastic strife:
Ah! visions less beguiling far,
Than waking dreams by daylight are!
Night is the time to weep:
To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory where sleep
The joys of other years;
Hopes that were angels in their birth,
But perish'd young, like things on earth!
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