Saxon, from yonder mountain high,
I marked thee send delighted eye,
Far to the south and east, where lay,
Extended in succession gay,
Deep waving fields and pastures green,
With gentle slopes and groves between :-
These fertile plains, that softened vale,
Were once the birthright of the Gael ;
The stranger came with iron hand,
And from our fathers reft the land.
Where dwell we now? — See, rudely swell
Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell.
Ask we this savage hill we tread
For fattened steer or household bread ?
Ask we for food these shingles dry ?
And well the mountain might reply,
“To you, as to your sires of yore,
Belong the target and clay-more'!
I give you shelter in my breast,
Your own good blades must win the rest,".
Pent in this fortress of the north,
Thinkst thou we will not sally forth
To spoil the spoiler as we may,
And from the robber rend the


Ay, by my soul ! — While on yon plain
The Saxon rears one shock of grain,
While, of ten thousand herds, there strays:
But one along yon river's maze,
The Gael, of plain and river heir,
Shall, with strong hand, redeem his share.



“Say, who art thou, with more than mortal air, Endowed by Heaven with gifts and graces rare, Whom restless, wingéd feet for ever onward bear ?." “I am Occasion — known to few, at best; And since one foot upon a wheel I rest, Constant my movements are — they cannot be repressed.



Not the swift eagle in his swiftest flight Can equal me in speed, — my wings are bright; And man, who sees them waved, is dazzled by the sight “My thick and flowing locks before me thrown Conceal my form, nor face nor breast is shown, That thus, as I approach, my coming be not known. “Behind my head no single lock of hair Invites the hand that fain would grasp it there ; But he who lets me pass to seize me may despair.” “Whom, then, so close behind thee do I see ?— “Her name is Penitence; and Heaven's decree Hath made all those her prey who profit not by me.”


WHY thus longing, thus for ever sighing,

For the far off, unattained, and dim,
While the beautiful, all round thee lying,

Offers up its low perpetual hymn ?
Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching,

All thy restless yearnings it would still ;
Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching,

Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill.
Poor, indeed, thou must be, if around thea

Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw ;
If silken cord of love hath bound thee

To some little world through weal and woe;
If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten,

No fond voices answer to thine own;
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten,

By daily sympathy and gentle tone.
Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses,

Not by works that give thee world-renown,
Not by martyrdom, or vaunted crosses,

Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown.
Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely,

Every day a rich reward will give ;
Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only,

And truly loving, thou canst truly live.

Dost thou revel in the rosy morning,

When all nature hails the lord of light,
And his smile, the mountain tops adorning,

Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright?
Other hands may grasp the field and forest,

Proud proprietors in pomp may shine ;
But with fervent love if thou adorest,

Thou art wealthier, — all the world is thine !
Yet, if through earth’s wide domains thou rovest,

Sighing that they are not thine alone,
Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest,

And their beauty and thy worth are gone.
Nature wears the colors of the spirit;

Sweetly to her worshiper she sings;
All the glow, the grace she does inherit,
Round her trusting child she fondly flings!


LXXXII. – ALEXANDER AND DIOGENES. When Alexander the Great asked Diogenes, the Cynic philosopher, if he

could oblige him in any way, the latter replied, “ Yes ; you can stand out of my sunshine.”

SLOWLY the monarch turned aside:
But when his glance of youthful pride

the warriors gray
Who bore his lance and shield that day,
And the long line of spears that came
Through the far groves like waves of flame, -
Then Alexander's pulse beat high,
More darkly flashed his shifting eye,
And visions of the battle-plain
Came bursting on his soul again.
Quick turned Diogenes * away
Right gladly from that long array,
As if their presence were a blight
Of pain and sickness to his sight;
And slowly folding o'er his breast
The fragments of his tattered vest,
As was his wont, unasked, unsought,
Gave to the winds his muttered thought,


* Pronounced Di-oj'e-nès.



Naming no name of friend or foe,
And reckless if they heard or no.
Ay, go thy way, thou painted thing -
Puppet, which mortals call a king !
Adorning thee with idle gems,
With drapery and diadems,
And scarcely guessing that beneath
The purple robe and laurel wreath
There is nothing but the common slime
Of human clay and human crime !
My rags are not so rich; but they
Will serve as well to cloak decay.
“ And ever round thy jeweled brow
False slaves and falser friends will bow,
And Flattery -as varnish flings
A brightness on the basest things —
Will make the monarch's deeds appear
All worthless to the monarch's ear,
Till thou wilt turn and think that Fame,
So vilely drest, is worse than shame!
The gods be thanked for all their mercies!
Diogenes hears naught but curses.
"And thou wilt banquet ! air and sea
Will render up their hoards for thee;
And golden cups for thee will hold
Rich nectar, richer than the gold.
The cunning cāterer still must share
The dainties which his toils

prepare ;
The page's lip must taste the wine
Before he fills the cup for thine !
Wilt feast with me on Hec'ate's cheer 9
I dread no royal hemlock here.
And night will come; and thou wilt lio
Beneath a purple canopy,
With lutes to lull thee, flowers to shed
Their feverish fragrance round thy bed ;
A princess to unclasp thy crest,
A Spartan spear to guard thy rest. -
Dream, happy one ! - thy dreams will be
Of danger and of perfidy;
The Persian lance, the Carian club!
I shall sleep sounder in my tub!

" And thou wilt pass away, and have
A marble mountain o'er thy grave,
With pillars tall and chambers vast,
Fit palace for the worms' repast !
I too shall perish! - let them call
The vulture to my funeral !
The Cynic's staff, the Cynic's den,
Are all he leaves his fellow-men ;
Heedless how his corruption fares, -
Yea, heedless though it mix with theirs ! ”

PRAED (altered)

LXXXIII. - WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. WOODMAN, spare that tree-touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, and I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand that placed it near his cot ; There, woodman, let it stand — thy ax shall harm it not ! That old familiar tree, whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea — and wouldst thou hack it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke — cut not its earth-bound ties; O, spare that aged oak, now towering to the skies! When but an idle boy, I sought its grateful shade ; In all their gushing joy, here, too, my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; my father pressed my hand; Forgive this foolish tear, but let that old oak stand! My heart-strings round thee cling, close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild bird sing, and still thy branches bend. Old tree, the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, thy ax shall harm it not !


FAREWELL! but whenever you welcome the hour
Which awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return; not a hope may remain,
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain,
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw
Its enchantments around him while lingering with you,

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