Ye shall not fawn before my dust, Ye shall not pile, with servile toil, Lay down the wreck of power to rest; But ye the mountain stream shall turn, My gold and silver ye shall fling Back to the clods, that gave them birth;- For, e'en though dead, will I control But when, beneath the mountain tide, Ye shall not rear upon its side Pillar or mound to mark the spot; My course was like a river deep, And from the northern hills I burst, See how their haughty barriers fail Their iron-breasted legions quail Before my ruthless sabaoth, And low the queen of empires kneels, Not for myself did I ascend In judgment my triumphal car; With iron hand that scourge I reared And vengeance sat upon the helm, Across the everlasting Alp I poured the torrent of my powers, And feeble Cæsars shrieked for help, In vain, within their seven-hilled towers; And struck a darker, deeper die My course is run, my errand done; But never yet shall set the sun Of glory that adorns my name; My course is run, my errand done; And in the caves of vengeance, wait; Apostrophe to the Sun.-J. G. PERCIVAL. CENTRE of light and energy, thy way Is through the unknown void; thou hast thy throne, Morning, and evening, and at noon of day, Far in the blue, untended and alone: Ere the first-wakened airs of earth had blown, On didst thou march, triumphant in thy light; Then didst thou send thy glance, which still hath flown Wide through the never-ending worlds of night, And yet thy full orb burns with flash unquenched and bright Thy path is high in heaven ;-we cannot gaze * So thou, too, hast thy path around the central soul. Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles; When through their heaven thy changing car is borne; Thou wheel'st away thy flight,-the woods are shorn Of all their waving locks, and storms awake; All, that was once so beautiful, is torn By the wild winds which plough the lonely lake, And, in their maddening rush, the crested mountains shake. The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow; Life lingers, and would die, but thy return Gives to their gladdened hearts an overflow Of all the power, that brooded in the urn Of their chilled frames, and then they proudly spurn All bands that would confine, and give to air Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty till they burn, When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there Rich waves of gold to wreath with fairer light the fair. The vales are thine :-and when the touch of spring Dashes the water in his winding flight, And leaves behind a wave, that crinkles bright, And widens outward to the pebbled shore ; The vales are thine; and, when they wake from night, The hills are thine :-they catch thy newest beam, Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food Flow, and give brighter tints than ever bud, When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze Of many twinkling gems, as every glossed bough plays. Thine are the mountains,-where they purely lift Into the high, dark vault, a brow that still is fair. The clouds are thine; and all their magic hues Their waving folds with such a perfect glow * These are thy trophies, and thou bend'st thy arch, And how the heavenly messenger impels Her glad wings on the path that thus in ether swells. The ocean is thy vassal :-thou dost sway Where thou, in heaven, dost guide them on their way, Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow, And take them wings and spring aloft in air, And change to clouds, and then, dissolving, throw Their treasures back to earth, and, rushing, tear The mountain and the vale, as proudly on they bear. In thee, first light, the bounding ocean smiles, I hurry o'er the waters when the sail Swells tensely, and the light keel glances well Over the curling billow, and the gale Comes off from spicy groves to tell its winning tale. "I thought it slept."-HENRY PICKERING. From Recollections of Childhood. I SAW the infant cherub-soft it lay, As it was wont, within its cradle, now Decked with sweet smelling flowers. A sight so strange And yet its little bosom did not move! I bent me down to look into its eyes, But they were closed; then softly clasped its hand; |