Another star hath set, ah, we were thinking
That it was at its zenith, when 'twas sinking,
Another star hath set whose splendid rising,
Was but of late above the world's horizon.
To Thalia all his labours dedicating,
With wit and humour all our hearts elating;
Whate'er his fancy touched it was adorning
Lost to our love still in his manhood's morning.
O genius is a gift which, who possesseth,
Is like the serpent which a man caresseth,
It wounds the hand which in its grasp is holding,
Or to the bosom is too fondly folding.
'Tis like the pointed poison-barbed arrow,
Which carried death to Nessus' brain and marrow, Or like the shirt that Centaur's blood was baning, Whose vital stream that barbed shaft was draining.
An useful part he plays, whose art doth lessen,
One pang of sorrow the full heart possessing,
Whose magic colors tinge the shades of sorrow,
The hope awakening of a brighter morrow.
Such art was thine, O Smith, a skilful actor,
Nay rather I would call thee benefactor,
Thy merry words the wrinkled brow were smooth
And hearts too full for speech thy smile was soothing.
Well, thou art gone-as when the ship is leaving
Its haven and the purple tide is cleaving,
Their hearts go with it who behind remaining,
Are for a brother's loss or friend's complaining.
So we have sorrow for thy sudden going,
So are our tears for thy bereavement flowing,
And one sad heart another sadder maketh,
Its heavenward journey as thy spirit taketh.
May 25, 1860.
Thine hour is come, the dread handwriting
Thou couldst not read whilst others could,
For God with blindness thee was smiting,
Thine heart already hard as wood.
Thine hour is come, a people's groaning,
Hath found an entrance to the skies,
Their wrongs His wrongs, their God is owning,
And now for judgment doth arise.
Thine hour is come, thy treasures gather,
Be harnessed now thy fastest steed,
True child of him thou calledst "Father,"
In heart, in feature, and in deed.
Thine hour is come, a hero teareth,
The seal which made Sicilia thine,
His hand thy crown for Victor beareth,
With him thy people now combine.
Thine hour is come, that noble water,
Where now are anchored gallant ships.
Shall crimson run with death and slaughter,
Borne from the blazing cannon's lips;
If thou should'st dare to be resisting,
The hero landing on thy shore;
If thou should'st dare, then tyrant listen,
He'll strike but once, and strike no more.
THERE WAS A TRADITION IN GREECE
THAT AT MIDNIGHT MIGHT BE HEARD ON THE PLAIN
OF MARATHON THE CLASH OF ARMS AND THE
The midnight plain of Marathon
Shook with hoof and heel,
Of horses bearing those won
For Greece's common weal.
As the pale rays of midnight sealed,
The plain with yellow light,
The shouts of war, the clashing shield,
Told of the midnight fight.
Their ghosts at Marathon who fought,
(In Greece so ran the tale)
Each night that field of glory sought
And donned their arms and mail.
Careering o'er that sounding field,
The battle did again,
And hurled the spear, and held the shield,
Those brave Athenian men.
Triumphant o'er the Persian host,
Uprose the midnight shout,
Repeated by each waning ghost,
Who mingled in the rout.
If any then at that dread time
Profane, the plain should seek,
The Gods would seal it as a crime,
For which their wrath they'd wreak.
By plague or death their anger show,
Upon that guilty one,
Presumptuous, who at night should go,
To sounding Marathon.
O breathe on the meadows and waken the flowers,
For thee they are waiting, for thee and the showers;
Again they shall rise from the region of death,
When they feel on their buds the sweet warmth of
thy breath.
O come from the South where the myrtle doth fade, And the bloom of the orange has lately decayed,
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