Grim darkness felt His might, And fled away: Then startled seas and mountains cold Shone forth, all bright in blue and gold, And cried-""Tis day! 'tis day!" "Hail, holy light!" exclaimed The thunderous cloud that flamed And lo! the rose, in crimson dressed, And, blushing, murmured-"Light." Then was the skylark born; Flowed o'er the sunny hills of noon: Lo, heaven's bright bow is glad! And shall the immortal sons of God Be senseless as the trodden clod, No, by the mind of man! We will aspire! Our souls have holy light within, And every form of grief and sin By all we hope of Heaven, Mind, mind alone Is light, and hope, and life, and power! "The Press!" all lands shall sing; All lands to bless. O pallid want! O labor stark! A DEFENCE OF POETRY. ELIEVE not those who tell you that Poetry will seduce the only admits, but requires, the co-operation of Philosophy and Science. And true Poetry must be always reverent. Would not an universal cloud settle upon all the beauties of Creation, if it were supposed that they had not emanated from Almighty energy? In works of art, we are not content with the accuracy of feature, and the glow of coloring, until we have traced them to the mind that guided the chisel, and gave the pencil its delicacies and its animation. Nor can we look with delight on the features of Nature, without hailing the celestial Intelligence that gave them birth. The Deity is too sublime for Poetry to doubt His existence. Creation has too much of the Divinity insinuated into her beauties to allow Poetry to hesitate in her creed. She demands no proof. She waits for no demonstration. She looks, and she believes. She admires, and she adores. Nor is it alone with natural religion that she maintains this intimate connection; for what is the Christian's hope, but Poetry in her purest and most ethereal essence? From the beginning she was one of the ministering spirits that stand round the throne of God, to issue forth at His word, and do His errands upon the earth. Sometimes she has been the herald of an offending nation's downfall. Often has she been sent commissioned to offending man, with prophecy and warning upon her lips. At other times she has been intrusted with "glad tidings of great joy." Poetry was the anticipating apostle, the prophetic evangelist, whose feet "were beautiful upon the mountains;" who published salvation; who said unto Zion, "Thy God reigneth!" BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OF CÆSAR. R OMANS, countrymen, and lovers! Hear me for my cause; and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine honor; and have respect to mine honor, that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly - any dear friend of Cæsar's to him I say, that Brutus' love to Cæsar was not less than his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer: Not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Cæsar were living, and die all slaves, than that Cæsar were dead, to live all freemen? As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honor him; but as he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears, for his love; joy, for his fortune; honor, for his valor; and death, for his ambition! Who is here so base, that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile, that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply. None? Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Cæsar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death. Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony; who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth: as which of you shall not? With this I depart: That, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. UR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered, OUR And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thrice ere the morning I dreamed it again. Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array, To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. "Stay, stay with us - rest; thou art weary and worn!" And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, WAT TYLER'S ADDRESS TO THE KING. ING of England, K Petitioning for pity is most weak The sovereign people ought to demand justice. Why do ye carry on this fatal war, To force upon the French a king they hate; Tearing our young men from their peaceful homes, Forcing his hard-earned fruits from the honest peasant, Distressing us to desolate our neighbors? Why is this ruinous poll-tax imposed, But to support your court's extravagance, And, like your spaniels, lick the hand that beats us? The costly banquet courts your appetite; Sweet music soothes your slumbers: we, the while, And sleep scarce sheltered from the cold night-wind, We toil and sweat for money for your taxes; The birds of heaven, your own? — prohibiting us, And tyrants tremble-mark me, King of England! |