Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn; There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, The place of fame and elegy supply: Or And many a holy text around she strews, crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. That teach the rustic moralist to die. One morn I missed him on the 'cus Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to misery all he had, a tear, He gained from Heaven, 't was all he wished, a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. ODE ON THE SPRING. Lo! where the rosy-bosomed hours The untaught harmony of spring: While, whispering pleasure as they fly, Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky Their gathered fragrance fling. Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader, browner shade, Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclined in rustic state) Still is the toiling hand of Care; And float amid the liquid noon: Some lightly o'er the current skim, Some show their gaily-gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun. To Contemplation's sober eye In fortune's varying colors drest: Brushed by the hand of rough mischance Or chilled by age, their airy dance Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive kind reply: Poor moralist! and what art thou? A solitary fly! Thy joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets. No painted plumage to display: On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone,We frolic while 'tis May. THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE. SMILES on past Misfortune's brow Soft Reflection's hand can trace, And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw A melancholy grace; While hope prolongs our happier hour, Or deepest shades, that dimly lower And blacken round our weary way, Gilds with a gleam of distant day. Still, where rosy Pleasure leads, See a kindred Grief pursue; See the wretch that long has tost And breathe and walk again: ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast: Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new, And lively cheer, of vigor born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light That fly the approach of morn. And black misfortune's baleful Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murderous band! Ah, tell them they are men! These shall the fury passions tear, And shame that skulks behind; Or pining love shall waste their youth, Or jealousy with rankling tooth That inly gnaws the secret heart, And envy wan, and faded care, Grim-visaged comfortless despair, And sorrow's piercing dart. Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high To bitter scorn a sacrifice And grinning infamy. The stings of falsehood those shall try, And hard unkindness' altered eye, That mocks the tear it forced to This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every laboring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage: Lo, poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow-consuming age. To each his sufferings: all are men, Condemned alike to groan; The tender for another's pain, Since sorrow never comes too late, No more, where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise. ZADEL BARNES GUSTAFSON. LITTLE MARTIN CRAGHAN. ONE reads to me Macaulay's "Lays" With fervid voice, intoning well The poet's fire, the vocal grace; They hold me like a spell. 'Twere marvel if in human veins Could beat a pulse so cold It would not quicken to the strains, The flying, fiery strains, that tell How Romans "kept the bridge so well In the brave days of old." The while I listened, till my blood, Plunged in the poet's martial mood, Rushed in my veins like wine, I prayed,-to One who hears, I wis; "Give me one breath of power like this To sing of Pittston mine!" A child looks up the ragged shaft, That feeds the eager flame. He has a single chance; the stakes For while his trembling hand is raised, The thought of those unwarned, to whom Death steals along the mine. O little Martin Craghan! By gods of mythic lore; And that your bare brown feet scarce felt The way they bounded o'er. I know you were a hero then, Whate'er you were before; And in God's sight your flying feet Made white the cavern floor. The while he speeds that darksome way, Hope paints upon his fears Soft visions of the light of day; Faint songs of birds he hears; In summer breeze his tangled curls Are blown about his ears. He sees the men; he warns; and now, His duty bravely done, Sweet hope may paint the fairest scene That spreads beneath the sun. Back to the burning shaft he flies; With wheeling, whirling, hungry flame, The seething shaft is rife: Where solid chains drip liquid fire, What chance for human life? To die with those he hoped to save, Back, back, through heat and gloom, To find a wall,- and Death and he Shut in the larger tomb! He pleaded to be taken in As closer rolled the smoke; In deathful vapors they could hear His piteous accents choke. And they, with shaking voice, refused; And then the young heart broke. Oh love of life! God made it strong, And knows how close it pressed; And death to those who love life least Is scarce a welcome guest. And then, no longer swift, his feet Passed down the galleries. He crept and crouched beside his mule, Led by its dying moan; He touched it feebly with a hand That shook like palsy's own. God grant the touch had power to make The child feel less alone! Who knoweth every heart, He knows Their hold of life resigned. Perhaps the little fellow felt As brave Horatius thought, When for those dearer Roman lives He held his own as nought. For how could boy die better Than facing fearful fires To save poor women's husbands And helpless children's sires ? Death leaned upon him heavily; But Love, more mighty still,She lent him slender lease of life To work her tender will. He felt with sightless, sentient hand Illumed their faces, steeled each O'erwritten with the names he loved, heart. O God! what mysteries Of brave and base make sum and part What will not thy poor creatures do He wept a little,- for they heard Clasped to his little side, Dim eyes the wooden record read Hours after he had died. Thus from all knowledge of his kind, And, while they listened for the feet |