120

THE HERITAGE

O poor man's son! scorn not thy state;
There is worse weariness than thine
In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last;
Both, children of the same dear God,
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well-filled past;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.

JAMES RUSSELL Lowell.

THE MARSEILLAISE

E sons of Freedom, wake to glory!

YE

Hark! Hark! what myriads bid you riseYour children, wives, and grandsires hoary, Behold their tears and hear their cries! Shall hateful tyrants, mischiefs breeding, With hireling hosts, a ruffian band, Affright and desolate the land, While peace and liberty lie bleeding? To arms! to arms! ye brave! The avenging sword unsheathe; March on march on! all hearts resolved On victory or death.

Now, now, the dangerous storm is rolling,
Which treacherous kings confederate raise;

The dogs of war, let loose, are howling,
And lo! our fields and cities blaze;
And shall we basely view the ruin,
While lawless force, with guilty stride,
Spreads desolation far and wide,

With crimes and blood their hands imbruing?
To arms! to arms! ye brave,

The avenging sword unsheathe;

March on march on! all hearts resolved

On victory or death.

122

THE MARSEILLAISE

With luxury and pride surrounded,
The vile, insatiate despots dare,-
Their thirst of power and gold unbounded,-
To mete and vend the light and air,
Like beasts of burden would they load us,
Like gods would bid their slaves adore;
But man is man and who is more?
Then shall they longer lash and goad us?
To arms! to arms! ye brave,

The avenging sword unsheathe;
March on! march on! all hearts resolved
On victory or death.

O Liberty! can man resign thee,
Once having felt thy generous flame?
Can dungeons, bolts, or bars confine thee,
Or whip thy noble spirit tame?
Too long the world has wept bewailing
That Falsehood's dagger tyrants wield;
But Freedom is our sword and shield,
And all their arts are unavailing.
To arms! to arms! ye brave,

The avenging sword unsheathe;

March on march on! all hearts resolved
On victory or death.

ROUGET DE L'ISLE.

THE MINSTREL BOY

HE minstrel boy to the war is gone,

THE

In the ranks of death you'll find him; His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him."Land of song!" said the warrior bard, "Though all the world betrays thee, "One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, "One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder,

And said, "No chains shall sully thee,

"Thou soul of love and bravery!

"Thy songs were made for the pure and free, "They shall never sound in slavery!"

THOMAS Moore.

THE NECKAN

N summer on the headlands,

IN

The Baltic Sea along,

Sits Neckan with his harp of gold,
And sings his plaintive song.

Green rolls beneath the headlands,
Green rolls the Baltic Sea;
And there, below the Neckan's feet,
His wife and children be.

He sings not of the ocean,

Its shells and roses pale;

Of earth, of earth, the Neckan sings, He hath no other tale.

He sits upon the headlands,
And sings a mournful stave
Of all he saw and felt. on earth,
Far from the kind sea-wave.

Sings how, a knight, he wandered
By castle, field, and town-

But earthly knights have harder hearts
Than the sea-children own.