Puslapio vaizdai



Hide from me,-hide those soldiers overborne,

Broken with toil; with death-bolts crush'd and torn ;
Those quivering limbs with dust defiled,

And bloody corses upon corses piled.

Veil from mine eyes that monument
Of nation against nation spent

In struggling rage, that pants for breath;
Spare us the bands thou sparedst,—Death!

Oh, VARUS !—where the warriors thou hast led?
RESTORE OUR LEGIONS !—give us back our Dead !

Translated from DE LA VIGNE.


THERE, interspersed in lawns and opening glades,
Thin trees arise that shun each other's shades.
Here in full light the russet plains extend,
There, wrapt in clouds, the bluish hills ascend.
E'en the wild heath displays her purple dyes,
And 'midst the desert, fruitful fields arise,

That, crown'd with tufted trees and springing corn,
Like verdant isles the sable waste adorn.
Let India boast her plants, nor envy we
The weeping amber, or the balmy tree,

While by our oaks the precious loads are borne,
And realms commanded which those trees adorn.



WHERE'ER we tread, 'tis haunted, holy ground; No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, And all the Muses' tales seem truly told, Till the sense aches with gazing to behold The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon; Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold, Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone ; Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares grey Marathon.

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same;
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord.

Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame
The battle-field, where Persia's victim horde
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword,
As on the morn to distant glory dear,
When Marathon became a magic word;
Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear

The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career.

The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow;
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear;
Mountains above,-earth's, ocean's plain below;
Death in the front, destruction in the rear !
Such was the scene,-what now remaineth here?

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What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground,
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear?
The rifled urn, the violated mound,

The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger, spurns around!



AND forth they pass, with pleasure forward led,
Joying to hear the birds' sweet harmony,

Which, therein shrouded from the tempests dread,
Seem'd in their song to scorn the cruel sky;

Much can they praise, the trees so straight and high,
The sailing pine, the cedar proud and tall,
The vine-prop elm, the poplar never dry,

The builder oak, sole king of forests all;
The aspen good for staves; the cypress funeral.

The laurel, meed of mighty conquerors
And poets sage; the fir that weepeth still;
The willow worn of forlorn paramours;
obedient to the bender's will;
The birch for shafts, the sallow for the mill,
The myrrh sweet bleeding of the bitter wound,
The warlike beech, the ash for nothing ill,



The fruitful olive, and the platane round,

The carver holm, the maple seldom inward sound.




LET the proud boor possess his flocks,
And boast his fields of grain;
My home is 'mid the mountain rocks,
The desert my domain.

I plant no herbs or pleasant fruits,
Nor toil for savoury cheer:
The desert yields me juicy roots
And herds of bounding deer.

The countless spring-boks are my flock,
Spread o'er the boundless plain ;
The buffalo bends to my yoke,
And the wild-horse to my rein ;
My yoke is the quivering assagai,
My rein the tough bow-string;
My bridle curb is a slender barb-
Yet it quells the forest king.

The crested adder honoureth me,
And yields, at my command,
His poison-bag, like the honey-bee,
When I seize him on the sand.
Yea! even the locusts' wasting swarm,
Which mightiest nations dread,

To me brings joy in place of harm,
For I make of them my bread.



Thus I am lord of the desert land,
And I will not leave my bounds,
To crouch beneath the Christian's hand,
And kennel with his hounds;

To be a hound, and watch the flocks,
For the cruel white man's gain.
No! the swart serpent of the rocks
His den doth yet retain ;

And none who there his sting provokes

Shall find its poison vain !



CAN it be true? so fragrant and so fair,
To give thy perfume to the dews of night!
Can aught so beautiful shrink from the glare,
And fade and sicken in the coming light?
Yes, peerless flower! the heavens alone exhale
Thy fragrance, while the glittering stars attest;
And incense, wafted from the midnight gale
Untainted rises from thy spotless breast.
Sweet emblem of that Faith which seeks, apart
From human praise, to love and work unseen,
That gives to heaven an undivided heart,—
In sorrow steadfast, and in joy serene!
Anchor'd in God, no adverse cloud can dim
The eye, unalter'd, still is fix'd on Him!


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