10 Who murmurs at his lot to-day?
Who scorns his native fruit and bloom?
Or sighs for dainties far away,
Beside the bounteous board of home?
11 Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom's arm
Can change a rocky soil to gold ;
That brave and generous lives can warm
A clime with Northern ices cold.
12 And let these altars, wreath'd with flowers
And piled with fruits, awake again
Thanksgivings for the golden hours,
The early and the latter rain!
1 Two Angels, one of Life and one of Death,
Pass'd o'er our village as the morning broke;
The dawn was on their faces, and, beneath,
The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke.
2 Their attitude and aspect were the same,
Alike their features and their robes of white;
But one was crown'd with amaranth, as with flame,
And one with asphodels, like flakes of light.
3 I saw them pause on their celestial way;
Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppress'd,
"Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray
The place where thy beloved are at rest!"
4 And he who wore the crown of asphodels,
Descending, at my door began to knock,
And my soul sank within me, as in wells
The waters sink before an earthquake's shock.
A VISION OF ANCIENT ATHENS.
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers;
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers,
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that lours.
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs -
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT: 1794
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
7 Then, with a smile that fill'd the house with light,
"My errand is not Death, but Life," he said;
And ere I answer'd, passing out of sight,
On his celestial embassy he sped.
8 'T was at thy door, O friend! and not at mine,
The Angel with the amaranthine wreath,
Pausing, descended, and with voice divine
Whisper'd a word that had a sound like Death.
9 Then fell upon that house a sudden gloom,
A shadow on those features fair and thin;
And softly, from that hush'd and darken'd room,
Two Angels issued, where but one went in.
10 All is of God! If He but wave His hand,
The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud,
Till, with a smile of light on sea and land,
Lo! He looks back from the departing cloud.
11 Angels of Life and Death alike are His;
Without His leave they pass no threshold o'er;
Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this,
Against His messengers to shut the door?
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW: 1807
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
10 Who murmurs at his lot to-day?
Who scorns his native fruit and bloom?
Or sighs for dainties far away,
Beside the bounteous board of home?
11 Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom's arm
Can change a rocky soil to gold;
That brave and generous lives can warm
A clime with Northern ices cold.
12 And let these altars wreath'd with flowers
2 Nor I alone: a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland stretch'd beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth! —
3 Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
The wild old wood from his majestic rest,
Summoning from the innumerable boughs
The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And where th' o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass.
4 The faint old man shall lean his silver head
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,
And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep:
And they who stand about the sick man's bed
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.
And my soul sank within me, as in wells
The waters sink before an earthquake's shock.
A VISION OF ANCIENT ATHENS.
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers;
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers,
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that lours.
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT: 1794
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
1 NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
2 We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
3 No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
4 Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
5 We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!
6 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
10 Who murmurs at his lot to-day?
Who scorns his native fruit and bloom?
Or sighs for dainties far away,
Beside the bounteous board of home?
11 Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom's arm
from the net or s raffe estranu gory;
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory."
CHARLES WOLFE: 1791-1823.
LORD, with what care hast Thou begirt us round!
Parents first season us; then schoolmasters
Deliver us to laws; they send us bound
To rules of reason, holy messengers,
Pulpits and Sundays; sorrow, dogging sin;
Afflictions sorted; anguish of all sizes;
Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in;
Bibles laid open; millions of surprises;
Blessings beforehand; ties of gratefulness;
The sound of glory ringing in our ears;
Without, our shame; within, our consciences;
Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears:
Yet all these fences and their whole array
One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.
GEORGE HERBERT: 1593-1632.
TO A NIGHTINGALE.
SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours
Of Winters past or coming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are,
• Sir John Moore, a very brave, capable, and amiable general, fell, while gallantly animating his men to a charge, in the battle of Corunna, Jan. 16, 1809. The British army, though they had decidedly repulsed the attacks of the French under Marshals Soult and Ney, could hardly hope to retain the place, as this was without fortifications, and the French had large reinforcements within call. In the hurry of embarkation, there was not time for the customary rites and honours of burial. Wolfe's poem has probably conferred more fame on Sir John than any history of his deeds would have done.
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