« AnkstesnisTęsti »
"You run about my little maid,
"Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door And they are side by side.
"My stockings there I often knit,
"And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
"The first that died was little Jane :
"So in the churchyard she was laid;
"And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
"But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"-WORDSWORTH.
CVII.-ANDRE'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON.
IT is not the fear of death
It is not for another breath
I can die with a lip unstirr'd,
I can give up my mother's look-
I can think of love-yet brook
I can give up the young fame
I burn'd to win-
Thine is the power to give,
Joy for the hour I live-
By all the brave should cherish,
I ask that I may perish
N. P. WILLIS.
Marco Bozzaris, the Epaminondas of modern Greece, fell in a night attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platæa, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were:-"To die for liberty is a pleasure, not a pain."
AT midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
In dreams through camp and court he bore
In dreams his song of triumph heard;
As Eden's garden bird.
An hour passed on,-the Turk awoke;
And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band:-
"Strike-till the last armed foe expires!
They fought, like brave men, long and well;
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile, when rang their proud hurrah,
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's when she feels
With banquet song, and dance, and wine,-
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
But to the hero, when his sword
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.
CIX.-A PSALM OF LIFE.
TELL me not, in mournful numbers
Life is real! Life is earnest !
And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!