He thought how all through life, though young,
Upon a thread, a hair, he hung,
Over a gulf midway:
He thought what fear it were to fall
Into the pit that swallows all,
Unwinged with hope and love:
And when the succor came at last,
Oh, then he learnt how firm and fast
Was his best Friend above.
A DREAM-mysterious word, a dream!
What joys and sorrows are enshrined
In those still hours we fondly deem
A playtime for the truant mind!
It is a happy thing to dream,
When rosy thoughts and visions bright
Pour on the soul a golden stream
Of rich luxurious delight.
It is a weary thing to dream,
When from the hot and aching brain,
As from a boiling cauldron, steam
The myriad forms in fancy's train.
It is a curious thing to dream,
When shapes grotesque of all quaint things, Like laughing water-witches, seem
To sport in reason's turbid springs.
It is a glorious thing to dream,
When full of wings and full of eyes,—
Borne on the whirlwind or sun-beam,—
We race along the startled skies.
It is a wondrous thing to dream
Of tumbling, with a fearful shock,
From some tall cliff where eagles scream,
To light upon a feather rock.
It is a terrible thing to dream
Of strangled throats and heart-blood spilt,
And ghosts that in the darkness gleam,
And horrid eyes of midnight guilt.
I love a dream-I dread a dream,
Sometimes all bright and full of gladness, But other times my brain will teem
With sights that urge the mind to madness.
BACK, back; he fears not foaming flood
Who fears not steel-clad line :-
No warrior thou of German blood,
No brother thou of mine.
Go, earn Rome's chain to load thy neck,
Her gems to deck thy hilt ;
And blazon honor's hapless wreck
With all the gauds of guilt.
But wouldst thou have me share the prey ?
By all that I have done,
The Varian bones that day by day
Lie whitening in the sun;
The legion's trampled panoply,
The eagle's shattered wing,
I would not be for earth or sky
So scorned and mean a thing.
Ho! call me here the wizard, boy,
Of dark and subtle skill,
To agonize, but not destroy
To torture, not to kill.
When swords are out, and shriek and shout
Leave little room for prayer,
No fetter on man's arm or heart
Hangs half so heavy there.
I curse him by the gifts the land
Hath won from him and RomeThe riving axe, the wasting brand, Rent forest, blazing home.
I curse him by our country's gods,
The terrible, the dark-
The breakers of the Roman rods,
The smiters of the bark.
Oh, misery that such a ban
On such a brow should be!
Why comes he not in battle's van,
His country's chief to be?
To stand a comrade by my side,
The sharer of my fame,
And worthy of a brother's pride,
And of a brother's name?
But it is past!-where heroes press
And cowards bend the knee,
Arminius is not brotherless-
His brethren are the free.
They come around :—one hour, and light
Will fade from turf and tide ;
Then onward-onward to the fight,
With darkness for our guide!
To-night-to-night, when we shall meet
In combat face to face,
Then only would Arminius greet
The renegade's embrace.
The canker of Rome's guilt shall be
Upon his dying name;
And as he lived in slavery,
So shall he fall in shame.
Diogenes Alexandro roganti ut diceret, Si quid opus esset, "nunc quidem paullulum" inquit, "a sole."-Cicero Tusc. Disp.
KING ALEXANDER turned aside;
But when his glance of youthful pride
Rested upon the warriors gray
Who bore his lance and shield that day,
And the long line of spears, that came
Through the far grove like waves of flame,
His forehead burned, his pulse beat high,
More darkly flashed his shifting eye,
And visions of the battle-plain
Came bursting on his soul again.
The old man drew his gaze away
Right gladly from that long array,
As if their presence were a blight
Of pain and sickness to his sight;
And slowly folding o'er his breast
The fragments of his tattered vest,
As was his wont, unasked, unsought,
Gave to the winds his muttered thought,
Naming no name of friend or foe,
And reckless if they heard or no.
"Ay, go thy way, thou painted thing,
Puppet, which mortals call a king,
Adorning thee with idle gems,
With drapery and diadems,
And scarcely guessing, that beneath
The purple robe and laurel wreath,
There's nothing but the common slime
Of human clay and human crime !—
My rags are not so rich,-but they
Will serve as well to cloak decay.
And ever round thy jewelled brow False slaves and falser friends will bow;
And Flattery,-as varnish flings
A baseness on the brightest things,—
Will make the monarch's deeds appear
All worthless to the monarch's ear,
Till thou wilt turn and think that Fame,
So vilely dressed, is worse than shame!—
The gods be thanked for all their mercies,
Diogenes hears naught but curses!
"And thou wilt banquet!--air and sea
Will render up their hoards for thee;
And golden cups for thee will hold
Rich nectar, richer than the gold.
The cunning caterer still must share
The dainties which his toils prepare ;
The page's lip must taste the wine
Before he fills the cup for thine!—
Wilt feast with me on Hecate's cheer?
I dread no royal hemlock here!
"And night will come; and thou wilt lie
Beneath a purple canopy,
With lutes to lull thee, flowers to shed
Their feverish fragrance round thy bed,
A princess to unclasp thy crest,
A Spartan spear to guard thy rest.—
Dream, happy one!-thy dreams will be
Of danger and of perfidy;-
The Persian lance, the Carian club!--
I shall sleep sounder in my tub!
"And thou wilt pass away, and have
A marble mountain o'er thy grave,
With pillars tall, and chambers vast,
Fit palace for the worm's repast !—
I too shall perish!-let them call
The vulture to my funeral;
The Cynic's staff, the Cynic's den,
Are all he leaves his fellow-men,-
Heedless how this corruption fares,-
Yea, heedless though it mix with theirs!"
94. WHAT MAKES A HERO?
WHAT makes a hero ?-not success, not fame,
Inebriate merchants, and the loud acclaim
Of glutted avarice-caps tossed up in air,
Or pen of journalist, with flourish fair,
Bells pealed, stars, ribbons, and a titular name—
These, though his rightful tribute, he can spare;
His rightful tribute, not his end or aim,
Or true reward; for never yet did these
Refresh the soul, or set the heart at ease.
What makes a hero ?-An heroic mind,
Expressed in action, in endurance proved:
And if there be pre-eminence of right,
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