One bit his cartridge till his lip Grew black as winter sky: But still the boy moaned; "Forty-third, Teach me the way to die!" Oh, never saw I sight like that! The sergeant flung down flag, Even the fifer bound his brow With a wet and bloody rag, Then looked at locks and fixed their steel, But never made reply, Until he sobbed out once again, "Teach me the way to die!" Then, with a shout that flew to God, I saw their red plumes join and wave, The last who went-a wounded man- I never saw so sad a look As the poor youngster cast, When the hot smoke of cannon In cloud and whirlwind passed. Earth shook, and heaven answered. I watched his eagle eye As he faintly moaned, "The Forty-third Teach me the way to die!" Then, with a musket for a crutch, He leaped into the fight; I, with a bullet in my hip, Had neither strength nor might. I heard him moan, "The Forty-third They found him on the morrow, 'Tis forty years from then till now, And from my sleep I sometimes wake, And a voice that says, "Now, Forty-third, EDWARD ATHERSTONE. SUNRISE. SOON I began with eager foot to climb The high cliff, from whose top I might [grass behold The glorious spectacle. The short soft Had caught a plenteous dew: the mountain herbs [long Repaid my rude tread with sweet fragrance: The ascent and steep; and often did I pause To breathe and look around on the rich vales And swelling hills, each moment brightening. Thus with alternate toil and rest I climbed To the high summit, then walked gently on, Till by the cliff's precipitous edge I stood. Oh, then what glories burst upon my sight! The interminable ocean lay beneath At depth immense ;-not quiet as before, For a faint breath of air, even at the height On which I stood I scarce felt, played over it, Waking innumerous dimples on its face, As though 'twere conscious of the splendid guest That e'en then touched the threshold of heaven's gates, And smiled to bid him welcome. Far away And I could see the slow-paced waves ad- And not a cloud was visible. Towards the A dazzling point emerges from the sea; Of light and fire, it rests upon the rim Exulting I stretched forth my arms, And hailed the king of summer. Every hill Put on a face of gladness; every tree Shook his green leaves in joy; the meadows laughed; [beams, The deep glen, where it caught the amber Began to draw its misty veil aside, [tears; And smile and glisten through its pearly The birds struck up their chorus; the young lambs [lived Scoured over hill and meadow ;-all that Looked like a new creation, over-filled With health and joy; nay, e'en the inanimate earth Seemed coming into life. But glorious far Beyond all else the mighty god of light Mounting the crystal firmament; no eye May look upon his overwhelming pomp: Power and majesty attend his steps, Ocean and earth adoring gaze on him: In lone magnificence he takes his way Through the bright solitude of heaven. The sea Was clear and purely blue, save the broad path Where the sunbeams danced on the heaving billows, That seemed a high-road, paved with atom Lies in the freshness of the evening shade, When, on each side, with gravely-darkened face, The masses rise above the light arcade; Walk down the midst with slowly timèd pace, But gay withal, for there is high parade Of fair attire, and fairer forms, which pass Like varying groups on a magician's glass. From broad illumined chambers far within, Or under curtains daintily outspread, Music, and laugh, and talk-the motley din Of all who from sad thought or toil are sped, Here a chance hour of social joy to win Gush forth; but I love best above my head To feel nor arch nor tent, nor anything But that pure heaven's eternal covering. It is one broad saloon, one gorgeous hall; A chamber where a multitude, all kings, May hold full audience, splendid festival, Or Piety's most prosperous minist'rings: Thus be its height unmarred-thus be it all One mighty room, whose form direct upsprings To the o'erarching sky: it is right good When Art and Nature keep such brotherhood. On such a night as this, impassionedly The old Venetian sang these verses rare: "That Venice must of needs eternal be, For heaven had looked through the pellucid air, And cast its reflex on the crystal sea And Venice was the image pictured there." I hear them now, and tremble, for I seem As treading on an unsubstantial dream. Who talks of vanished glory, of dead power, Of things that were and are not? Is he bere? Can he take in the glory of this hour, And call it all the decking of a bier? No; surely as on that Titanic tower The Guardian Angel stands in ether clear, With the moon's silver tempering his gold wing, So Venice lives, as lives no other thing: "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, From the meads where melick groweth "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, " For the dews will soone be falling: Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, LightQuit the stalks of parsley hollow, [foot, Hollow, hollow: Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, From the clovers lift your head, [foot, Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, LightCome uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking-shed." If it be long, ay, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, Swift as an arrow sharpe and strong; Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple towered from out the greene; The swanherds where their sedges are Then some looked uppe into the sky, To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows. "For evil news from Mablethorpe, |