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THE SONG OF THE FORGE.

361

When regal Autumn's bounteous hand
With wide-spread glory clothes the land,
When to the valleys, from the brow

Of each resplendent slope, is rolled

A ruddy sea of living gold,
We bless — we bless the PLOW.
Clang, clang ! — Again, my mates, what glows
Beneath the hammer's potent blows ? -
Clink, clank!- We forge the giant chain,
Which bears the gallant vessel's strain,
'Mid stormy winds and adverse tides ;

Secured by this, the good ship braves
The rocky roadstead,

and the waves
Which thunder on her sides.
Anxious no more, the merchant sees
The mist drive dark before the breeze,
The storm-cloud on the hill ;

Calmly he rests, though far away

In boisterous climes his vessel lay,
Reliant on our skill.
Say on what sands these links shall sleep,
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep ;
By Afric's pestilential shore,
By many an iceberg, lone and hoar, -

By many a palmy Western isle,

Basking in Spring's perpetual smile, –
By stormy Labrador.
Say, shall they feel the vessel reel,
When to the battery's deadly peal
The crashing broadside makes reply?

Or else, as at the glorious Nile,

Hold grappling ships, that strive the while For death or victory? Hurra! - Cling, clang !- Once more, what glows,

Dark brothers of the forge, beneath
The iron tempest of your blows,

The furnace's red breath?
Clang, c!ang ! - A burning torrent, clear

And brilliant, of bright sparks, is poured
Around and up in the dusky air,

As our hammers forge the SWORD.
The sword! a name of dread; yet when
Upon the freeman's thigh 't is bound,

While for his altar and his hearth, *
While for the land that gave him birth,

The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound,
How sacred is it then!
Whenever for the truth and right
It flashes in the van of fight,
Whether in some wild mountain-pass,
As that where fell Leonidas,
Or on some sterile plain, and stern,
A Marston or a Bannockburn, —
Or 'mid fierce crags and bursting rills,
The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills, -
Or, as when sank the Ar-ma'da's pride,
It gleams above the stormy tide,
Still, still, whene'er the battle-word

Is Liberty, when men do stand

For justice and their native land,
Then Heaven bless the swORD!

LX. - WHERE ARE THE DEAD ?

WHERE are the mighty ones of ages past,
Who o'er the world their inspiration cast, -
Whose memories stir our spirits like a blast ? —

Where are the dead ?
Where are the mighty ones of Greece ? Where be
The men of Sparta and Thermopylæ ?
The conquering Macedonian, where is he?

Where are the dead ?
Where are Rome's founders ? Where her chiefest son,
Before whose name the whole known world bowed down, -
Whose conquering arm chased the retreating sun ? —

Where are the dead ?
Where 's the bard-warrior-king of Albion's state,
A pattern for earth's sons to emulate,
The truly, nobly, wisely, goodly great ?

Where are the dead?
Where is Gaul's hero, who aspired to be
A second Cæsar in his mastery, –
To whom earth's crowned ones trembling bent the knee?

Where are the dead ?

The ea in this word properly has the sound of a in father, though by some, hearth is pronounced as if it rhymed with birth.

WHERE ARE THE DEAD!

363

Where is Columbia's son, her darling child,
Upon whose birth Virtue and Freedom smiled,
The Western Star, bright, pure, and undefiled ?-

Where are the dead ?
Where are the sons of song, the soul-inspired, -
The bard of Greece, whose muse (of heaven acquired)
With admiration ages past has fired, -

The classic dead ?
Where is the poet * who in death was cro

crowned, Whose clay-cold temples laurel chaplets bound, Mocking the dust, — in life no honor found,

The insulted dead ?
Greater than all, an earthly sun enshrined,
Where is the king of bards ? Where shall we find
The Swan of Avon, monarch of the mind, -

The mighty dead ?
When their frail bodies died, did they all die,
Like the brute dead, passing for ever by ?
Then wherefore was their intellect so high, --

The mighty dead ?
Why was it not confined to earthly sphere, --
To earthly wants? If it must perish here,
Why did they languish for a bliss more dear, -

The blessed dead ?
All things in nature are proportionate :
Is man alone in an imperfect state,
He who doth all things rule and regulate ?---

Then where the dead ?
If here they perished, in their beings' germ,-
Here were their thoughts’, their hopes', their wishes' term,-
Why should a giant's strength propel a worm ?-

The dead! the dead !
There are no dead ! The forms, indeed, did die,
That cased the ethereal beings now on high :
'T is but the outward covering is thrown by :

This is the dead !
The spirits of the lost, of whom we sing,
Have perished not; they have but taken wing, –
Changing an earthly for a heavenly spring :

There are the dead!

Torquato Tasso.

Thus is all nature perfect. Harmony
Pervades the whole, by His all-wise decree,
With whom are those, to vast infinity,

We misname dead.

ANOX.

LXI. - SAID I TO MYSELF, SAID I. “ I'm poor, and quite unknown; I have neither fame nor rank; My labor is all I own; I have no gold at the bank ; I'm one of the common crowd, despised of the passers-by, Contemned by the rich and proud," - said I to myself, said I. “I want, and I can not obtain, the luxuries of the earth ; My raiment is scant and plain, and I live in the fear of dearth; While others can laugh or sing, I have ever some cause to sigh; I'm a weary wanderling," - said I to myself, said I. “But is this grieving just ? Is it wise to fret and wail ? Is it right, thou speck of dust, thine envy should prevail ? Is it fitting thou shouldst close thy sight to the sunny sky, And an utter dark suppose ? ” said I to myself, said I. “ If poor, thou hast thy health; if humble, thou art strong; And the lark, that knows not wealth, ever sings a happy song. The flowers rejoice in the air, and give thy needs the lie; Thou 'rt a fool to foster care," said I to myself, said I. “ If the wants of thy pride be great, the needs of thy health are

small; And the world is the man's estate who can wisely enjoy it all. For him is the landscape spread, for him do the breezes ply, For him is the day-beam shed," - said I to myself, said I. " For him are the oceans rolled, for him do the rivers run, For him doth the year unfold her bounties to the sun; For him, if his heart be pure, shall common things supply All pleasures that endure," – said I to myself, said I. “ For him each blade of grass waves pleasure as it grows, For him, as the light clouds pass, a spirit of beauty flows ; For him, as the streamlets leap, or the winds on the tree-tops sigh, Comes a music sweet and deep,” — said I to myself, said I “ Nor of earth are his joys alone, how mean soever his state On him from the starry zone his ministering angels wait ; With him in voiceless thought they hold communion high ; By them are his fancies fraught," - said I to myself, said I.

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR.

865

“ I will mould my life afresh, I will circumscribe desire ;
Farewell to ye, griefs of flesh! and let my soul aspire.
I will make my wishes few, that my joys may multiply;
Adieu, false wants, adieu !” — said I to myself, said I.

CHARLES MACKAY.

LXII. - WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR.
GREAT King William spread before him

All his stores of wealth untold, —
Diamonds, emeralds, and rubies,

Heaps on heaps of minted gold,
Mournfully he gazed upon it

As it glittered in the sun,
Sighing to himself, “0 ! treasure,

Held in care, by sorrow won!
Millions think me rich and happy ;

But, alas! before me piled,
I would give thee ten times over

For the slumbers of a child !”
Great King William from his turret

Heard the martial trumpets blow,
Saw the crimson banners floating

Of a countless host below;
Saw their weapons flash in sunlight,

As the squadrons trod the sward;
And he sighed, “0, mighty army,

Hear thy miserable lord :
At my word thy legions gather-

At my nod thy captains bend;
But, with all thy power and splendor,

I would give thee for a friend ! ”
Great King William stood on Windsor,

Looking, from its castled height,
O’er his wide-spread realm of England

Glittering in the morning light;
Looking on the tranquil river

And the forest waving free,
And he sighed, “O! land of beauty,

Fondled by the circling sea,
Mine thou art, but I would yield thee

And be happy, could I gain, ·
In exchange, a peasant's garden,

And a conscience free from stain!'

IB.

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