Puslapio vaizdai
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THE BRICKMAKER.

There shall sit the hoary-headed
Old defenders of the land.

There shall mighty words be spoken,

Which shall thrill a wondering world Then shall ancient bonds be broken,

And new banners be unfurled.

But anon those glorious uses

In these chambers shall lie dead,
And the world's antique abuses,
Hydra-headed, rise instead ;
But this wrong not long shall linger—
The old capitol must fall;
For, behold! the fiery finger
Flames along the fated wall!

;

II.

Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground,
And no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded-
Till the heavy walls be risen,

And the fire is in his prison :

But when break the walls asunder,
And the fire is freed from under,

Say again what stately thing

From the ruin shall upspring?

There shall grow a church whose steeple

To the heavens shall aspire :

And shall come the mighty people

To the music of the choir.

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On the infant, robed in whiteness,
Shall baptismal waters fall,
While the child's angelic brightness
Sheds a halo over all.

There shall stand enwreathed in marriage
Forms that tremble-hearts that thrill-
To the door death's sable carriage
Shall bring forms and hearts grown still!

Decked in garments richly glistening,
Rustling wealth shall walk the aisle ;
And the poor without stand listening,
Praying in their hearts the while.

There the veteran shall come weekly
With his cane, oppressed and poor,
'Mid the horses standing meekly,
Gazing through the open door.

But these wrongs not long shall linger—
The presumptuous pile must fall;
For, behold the fiery finger

Flames along the fated wall.

III.

Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground;
And no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded-

Say again what stately thing

From the ruin shall upspring?

THE BRICKMAKER.

Not the hall with columned chambers,
Starred with words of liberty,
Where the freedom-canting members
Feel no impulse of the free;

Not the pile where souls in error
Hear the words, "Go, sin no more!"
But a dusky thing of terror,
With its cells and grated door.

To its inmates each to-morrow
Shall bring in no tide of joy.
Born in darkness and in sorrow,
There shall stand the fated boy.

With a grief too loud to smother,
With a throbbing, burning head-
There shall groan some desperate mother,
Nor deny the stolen bread!

There the veteran, a poor debtor,

Marked with honourable scars, Listening to some clanking fetter, Shall gaze idly through the bars :

Shall gaze idly, not demurring,

Though with thick oppression bowed; While the Many, doubly erring,

Shall walk honoured through the crowd.

Yet these wrongs not long shall linger-
The benighted pile must fall :

For, behold! the fiery finger

Flames along the fated wall!

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IV.

Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground ;
And no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded-
Till the heavy walls be risen,
And the fire is in his prison.
Capitol, and church, and jail,
Like our kiln at last shall fail;
Every shape of earth shall fade;
But the Heavenly Temple made
For the sorely tried and pure,
With its Builder shall endure !

T. B. READ.

THE RUSTIC PAINTER.

His sheep went idly over the hills,-

Idly down and up,——

As he sat and painted his sweetheart's face
On a little ivory cup.

All round him roses lay in the grass
That were hardly out of buds ;

For sake of her mouth and cheek, I knew
He had murdered them in the woods.

The ant, that good little housekeeper,
Was not at work so hard;

And yet the semblance of a smile
Was all of his reward:

TO A WILD FLOWER.

And the golden-belted gentleman

That travels in the air,

Hummed not so sweet to the clover-buds
As he to his picture there.

The while for his ivory cup he made

An easel of his knee,

And painted his little sweetheart's face
Truly and tenderly.

Thus we are marking on all our work
Whatever we have of grace;

As the rustic painted his ivory cup
With his little sweetheart's face.

PART V.

Poems of Sentiment.

TO A WILD FLOWER.

ALICE CARY.

IN what delightful land,
Sweet-scented flower, didst thou attain thy birth?
Thou art no offspring of the common earth,
By common breezes fann'd.

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