Her last noble is ruined, Her last poet mute: Straight, into double band The victors divide; Half for freedom strike and stand; The astonished Muse finds thousands at her side. ASTREA. HIMSELF it was who wrote His rank, and quartered his own coat. There is no king nor sovereign state That can fix a hero's rate; Each to all is venerable, Cap-a-pie invulnerable, Until he write, where all eyes rest, Slave or master on his breast. I saw men go up and down, In the country and the town, With this prayer upon their neck, 'Judgment and a judge we seek.' Not to monarchs they repair, Nor to learned jurist's chair; But they hurry to their peers, To their kinsfolk and their dears; Louder than with speech they pray,What am I? companion, say.' And the friend not hesitates To assign just place and mates; What himself declared repeats, The form is his own corporal form, Yet shine forever virgin minds, Rendering to a curious eye The durance of a granite ledge To those who gaze from the sea's edge. It is there for purging light; For there's no sequestered grot, Lone mountain tarn, or isle forgot, But Justice, journeying in the sphere, ETIENNE DE LA BOÉCE. I SERVE you not, if you I follow, Vainly valiant, you have missed The manhood that should yours resist, Its complement; but if I could, In severe or cordial mood, Lead you rightly to my altar, Where the wisest Muses falter, And worship that world-warming spark Which dazzles me in midnight dark, |