A thousand trumpets ring within old Barcelona's walls—
A thousand gallant nobles throng in Barcelona's halls,
The old grandees of Arragon, the knights of proud Castile,
Soft Andalusia's beauty, and rough Biscay's manhood leal,
All met to gaze on him who wrought a pathway for mankind;
Thro' seas as broad, to worlds as rich as his triumphant mind;
And king and queen will grace, forsooth, the mariner's array-
The lonely seaman scoffed and scorned in Palos town that day.
He comes, he comes, the gates swing wide, and through the streets advance
His cavalcade in proud parade, with plume and pennoned lance,
And natives of those new-found worlds and treasures all untold-
And in the midst the Admiral, his charger trapped with gold;
And all are wild with joy, and blithe the gladsome clarion's swell,
And dames and princes press to greet, and loud the myriads yell-
They cheer-that mob-they wildly cheer-Columbus checks his
rein,
And bends him to the beauteous dames and Cavaliers of Spain,
And bends him to the people too, but thoughtful is his smile,
And mid their cheers, as calm his glance, as mid their rage ere-
while.
PALER and thinner the morning moon grew,
Colder and sterner the rising wind blew-
The pole-star had set in a forest of cloud,
And the icicles crackled on spar and on shroud,
When a voice from below we heard feebly cry,
"Let me see-let me see-my own Land ere I die.”
Ah, dear sailor, say, have we sighted Cape Clear?
Can you see any sign? Is the morning light near?
You are young, my brave boy; thanks, thanks, for your hand,
Help me up, till I get a last glimpse of the land-
Thank God, 'tis the sun that now reddens the sky,
I shall see I shall see-my own Land ere I die.
"Let me lean on your strength, I am feeble and old,
And one half of my heart is already stone cold-
Forty years work a change! when I first crossed this sea
There were few on the deck that could grapple with me,
But my youth and my prime in Ohio went by,
And I'm come back to see the old spot ere I die."
'Twas a feeble old man, and he stood on the deck,
His arm round a kindly young mariner's neck,
His ghastly gaze fixed on the tints of the east,
As a starveling might stare at the noise of a feast-
The morn quickly rose and revealed to his eye
The land he had prayed to behold, and then die !
Green, green was the shore, though the year was near done—
High and haughty the capes the white surf dash'd upon-
A grey ruined Convent was down by the strand,
And the sheep fed afar, on the hills of the land!
"God be with you, dear Ireland," he gasped with a sigh,
'I have lived to behold you-I'm ready to die."
He sunk by the hour, and his pulse 'gan to fail,
As we swept by the headland of storied Kinsale-
Off Ardigna bay, it came slower and slower,
And his corpse was clay cold as we sighted Tramore.
At Passage we waked him, and now he doth lie,
In the lap of the land, he beheld but to die
BY SPERANZA (MRS. W. R. WILDE).
HUMAN lives are silent teaching—
Be they earnest, mild, and true—
Noble deeds are noblest preaching
From the consecrated few.
Poet-Priests their anthems singing,
Hero-swords on corslet ringing,
When Truth's banner is unfurled;
Youthful preachers, genius-gifted,
Pouring forth their souls uplifted,
Till their preaching stirs the world.
Each must work as God has given
Hero hand or poet soul-
Work is duty while we live in
This weird world of sin and dole.
Gentle spirits, lowly kneeling,
Lift their white hands up appealing,
To the Throne of Heaven's King-
Stronger natures, culminating,
In great actions incarnating
What another can but sing.
Pure and meek-eyed as an angel,
We must strive-must agonise;
We must preach the saint's evangel
Ere we claim the saintly prize-
Work for all-for work is holy-
We fulfil our mission solely
When, like Heaven's arch above,
Blend our souls in one emblazon,
And the social diapason
Sounds the perfect chord of love.
Life is combat, life is striving,
Such our destiny below-
Like a scythéd chariot driving
Through an onward pressing foe.
Deepest sorrow, scorn, and trial
Will but teach us self-denial;
Like the Alchymists of old,
Pass the ore through cleansing fire
If our spirits would aspire
To be God's refined gold.
We are struggling in the morning
With the spirit of the night,
But we trample on its scorning-
Lo! the eastern sky is bright.
We must watch. The day is breaking;
Soon, like Memnon's statue waking
With the sunrise into sound,
We shall raise our voice to Heaven,
Chant a hymn for conquest given,
Seize the palm, nor heed the wound.
We must bend our thoughts to earnest,
Would we strike the Idols down;
With a purpose of the sternest
Take the Cross, and wait the Crown,
Sufferings human life can hallow,
Sufferings lead to God's Valhalla-
Meekly bear, but nobly try,
Like a man with soft tears flowing,
Like a God with conquest glowing,
So to love, and work, and die!
SIR BANNERET OF THE TRICOLOR.
WHET my sabre, my cuirass bind,
Sling my carabine fair behind,
Loose my bannerol broad and free,
For I am a knight of high degree-
Of a famous Order, whose lists were old
When Venice blazoned the Book of Gold;
Whose Free Companions had won renown,
Ere Brutus stabbed the Cæsar down.
A Banneret of the Tricolor!
Banneret knight of the Tricolor!
Lady's graces and trophies in store
To the Banneret of the Tricolor!
Not mine to be dubbed by a royal blade,
Nor won my spurs in a baron's raid—
Oh! I knelt for the knightly accolade
At the back of a Paris barricade;
I kept the vigils our laws ordain
While the bombs fell fast round the Madeleine,
And swore my vows at Ventura's knee
To fight to the death for Libertie.
Life and death for the Tricolor!
Banneret true of the Tricolor!
Freedom's vassal for evermore
Is the Banneret of the Tricolor!
In Berlin streets there are broad platoons,
Down Berlin streets ride the fierce dragoons,
In Berlin streets there are dripping blades,
And the cry is, “Up with the barricades!"
Who heads the charge through the Konigstrasse,
Who points the grape where the Yagers pass,
Whose gallop splashes the gutters of gore?
"Tis the Banneret of the Tricolor!
The Eagles under the Tricolor!
Black and Red on the Tricolor!
Through showers of bullets and streams of gore,
Rides the Banneret of the Tricolor!
The day that we charged by Guyon's side!
After the Ban the Serezans ride,
And many a league we could track their trail,
By smoking roof-tree and woman's wail-
Christ! how we galloped their lances down,
And battered their files in Mannswerth town,
Till the Austrian bugles brayed retreat
As I clove a Croat from crown to seat.
Charging for Hungary's Tricolor,
The ancient Magyar Tricolor,
"Twill wave from the walls of Pesth once more; God guard Kossuth and the Tricolor!
Dear Di Lana! a day shall be
For Freedom's smile over Sicily;
From Etna's top to Messina's shore
The tyrant's frown shall be death no more.
We'll toss old Bomba, the crater down;
Thy statue 'll stand in Palermo town,
As when you sprang forth, sword in hand,
Like Joan of Arc, for native land.
O Ensign fair of the Tricolor!
The Lilies yield to the Tricolor!
We'll trample their bloom on the Golden Shore,
And spread the glorious Tricolor.
And thou, old natal Isle! again
I hear the tramp of thine armed men;
And see once more the day shall come
For the bristling pike and the rolling drum;
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