Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

Ring, joyous chords!-ring out again!
But what dost thou with the revel's train ?
A silvery voice through the soft air floats,
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes:
There are bright young faces that pass thee by,
But they fix no glance on thy wandering eye!
Away! there's a void in thy yearning breast,
Thou weary man! wilt thou here find rest?
Away! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled,
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead!
Thou art but more lone 'midst the sounds of mirth.
Back to thy silent hearth!

Ring, joyous chords !-ring forth again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!—
But thou, though a reckless mien be thine,
And thy cup be crowned with the foaming wine,
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud,

By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud,
I know thee!-it is but the wakeful fear

Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here!

I know thee!-thou fearest the solemn night,
With her piercing stars, and her deep wind's might!
There's a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst

shun,

For it asks what the secret soul hath done!
And thou-there's a dark weight on thine-away!
Back to thy home, and pray!

Ring, joyous chords !-ring out again!

A swifter still, and a wilder strain.

And bring fresh wreaths! we will banish all
Save the free in heart from our festive hall.
On! through the maze of the fleet dance, on!—
But where are the young and the lovely ?-gone!
Where are the brows with the red rose crowned,
And the floating forms with the bright zone bound?

And the waving locks and the flying feet,
That still should be where the mirthful meet?
They are gone they are fled-they are parted all!
Alas! alas! forsaken hall!

LESSON CXXII.

THE OLD MAN'S CAROUSAL.

The following Drinking Song may, perhaps, be called Anacreontic, from Anacreon, a famous Greek Lyric poet, celebrated for his Odes, which are more elegant than moral. Unlike the verses of Anacreon, however, the following are calculated to sadden the heart which his only tended to corrupt, and to encourage reflection which his attempted to drown. They were written by J. K. PAULDING.

Drink! drink! to whom shall we drink?

To friend or a mistress? Come, let me think!
To those who are absent, or those who are here?
To the dead that we loved, or the living still dear?
Alas! when I look, I find none of the last!
The present is barren-let's drink to the past.

Come! here's to the girl with a voice sweet and low,
The eye all of fire and the bosom of snow,
Who erewhile in the days of my youth that are fled,
Once slept on my bosom, and pillowed my head!
Would you know where to find such a delicate prize?
Go seek in yon churchyard, for there she lies.

And here's to the friend, the one friend of my youth,
With a head full of genius, a heart full of truth,
Who travelled with me in the sunshine of life,
And stood by my side in its peace and its strife!
Would you know where to seek a blessing so rare?
Go drag the lone sea, you may find him there.

And here's to a brace of twin cherubs of mine,
With hearts like their mother's, as pure as this wine,
Who came but to see the first act of the play,
Grew tired of the scene and then both went away.

Would you know where this brace of bright cherubs have hied?

Go seek them in Heaven, for there they abide.

A bumper, my boys! to a gray-headed pair,
Who watched o'er my childhood with tenderest care,
God bless them, and keep them, and may they look down
On the head of their son, without tear, sigh, or frown!
Would you know whom I drink to? go seek mid the
dead,

You will find both their names on the stone at their head.

And here's—but, alas! the good wine is no more,
The bottle is emptied of all its bright store;
Like those we have toasted, its spirit is fled,
And nothing is left of the light that it shed.

Then a bumper of tears, boys! the banquet here ends,
With a health to the dead, since we've no living friends.

LESSON CXXIII.

LAST WORDS OF AN INDIAN CHIEF.

The following characteristic poem was written by MRS. SIGOURNEY. It must be spoken by an advanced male pupil, with dignity, composure, and great deliberation and firmness.

"He cometh! Death is here. Leave me alone! Hence! hence! Ye shall not see me when I die, If die I must. I would not that the men

Whom I have led to battle see me yield

To any conqueror.

Shall my warriors hear

From this undaunted breast, the gasp, or groan,

How cold the dew

As when a woman dies?

Wipe it not away.

Starts o'er my temples!

Shame on your tears!

Leave me alone with Death!

For I will meet him as a brave man should,
And hurl defiance at him.

What is this?

Ha! He hath smote the lion! Was it well,
To steal upon me, in my unarmed bed,
Most potent enemy? How hast thou cut

The nerve of that strong arm which used to cleave
The proudest foeman, like the sapling spray!
Oh friends!—the dimness of the grave doth steal
Over those eyes, that as the eagle dared

The noontide sunbeam. Let me hear your voice
Once more! once more!"

In vain! that ear is sealed Which caught the rustle of the lightest leaf,

Where the close ambush lay. "Come back! come back!
Hear my last bidding, friends! Lay not my bones
Near any white man's bones. Let not his hand
Touch my clay pillow, nor his hateful voice
Sing burial hymns for me.

Rather than dwell

In paradise with him, my soul would choose
Eternal darkness and the undying worm.

Ho! heed my words, or else my wandering shade
Shall haunt ye with its curse!"

LESSON CXXIV.

SPEECH OF PHILIP OF MOUNT HOPE.

Philip, of Mount Hope, was the son of Massasoit, the chief sachem in the vicinity of Massachusetts and Plymouth colonies. He early saw that, unless the increase of the English settlers was prevented, the extermination of the Indian tribes would be inevitable, and he therefore endeavored to form a confederacy of the savages within the limits of New England. The following speech is supposed to have been made at a general council in 1675. Not meeting with the success he wished, he attacked the colonies single handed, but was slain in 1676. He was a prince of great talents and courage, and, had he been civilized, would have been considered a patriot, and a martyr to the liberty of his country.

Well met, associates! for the last time met, Unless ye feel the peril, and are ready

Now, ere yet another moon goes out,

To strike a blow, quick, sharp, and deep
As summer's flashing bolt, upon the invader.
He came a helpless infant, craving food,
And begging land to rest his foot upon;-
And what return! The foot so little then,
Hath grown
and spread, and soon will cover all
Our pleasant lands, and crush us 'neath its tread.
We ask them to retire, they push us back,
And pointing to the sun as he goes down,
They bid us follow him to the far west.
Sons of the sires who sleep in yonder graves!
How will ye dare to face those sires again,
When ye have basely left their sacred bones
To enrich the cornfields of your taunting foes?
Perchance ye'd wait until the cloud that's now
No bigger than a wren, shall spread its wings
And darken all the land. Perchance ye still
Believe the legend old, and do not see
That our inaction will insure our doom,
And the fulfilment bring of prophecies

That else were lying dreams. Perchance ye trust
The wave that wets our feet will not reach yours.
All other waves that roll sink back anon,

But this dread tide shall know no ebb, but swell,
Advance, and overwhelm the Mohawk and
The Huron, if it once over pass Mount Hope.

Perchance ye think their faith, of which they boast,
Will bid them spare us, check their lust of power,
And make them quit the land which the Great Spirit
Gave our fathers.-Madmen! ye know them not.
The very faith which they have dared to offer
In lieu of that our fathers left to us,
Has authorized the robbery they commit;
With impudent presumption they lay claim
To every land that worships not as they.
Perchance ye still believe them spirits,
Sent to teach us love, humility and just
Respect for right, and dread of wrong. Ye feel

« AnteriorContinuar »