It was that fatal and perfidious bark,
Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
Who to a woman trusts his peace of mind,
Trusts a frail bark with a tempestuous wind.
Oh, youth, and love, which is the light of youth,
Why pass ye as the morning? Life goes on,
But like a bark that first in carelessness,
And afterwards in fear of each rough gale,
Has flung her richest freightage overboard.
See, see, my friends, this light and tiny bark,
Upon the waves of life launched forth anew;
Its fair and tender passenger remark;
Be we the first to serve her as a crew.
Even now the billows waft her from the shore;
On may she float all gently evermore!
Let us who see the voyage commencing here,
With songs essay her onward course to cheer.
Beranger.
By time deciduous, scooped by worms,
Docked in ravines, and launched by storms,
The bark that skulked from nook to nook,
And feared a wreck in every brook,
Bore in her rotten womb the plan
That changed the destinies of man-
Dominion gave-and bid him roll
The thunderer's peal from pole to pole.
UNTO the ground she cast her modest eye,
And, ever and anon, with rosy red,
The bashful blush her snowy cheeks did dye.
I never tempted her with word too large;
But, as a brother to his sister, showed
Bashful sincerity and comely love.
Such looks, such bashfulness might well adorn
The cheeks of youth that are more nobly born.
Our author, anxious for his fame to-night,
And bashful in his first attempt to write,
Lies cautiously obscure,
I pity bashful men who feel the pain
Of fancied scorn, and undeserved disdain;
And bear the marks upon a blushing face,
Of needless shame, and self-imposed disgrace.
So bright the tear in beauty's eye,
Love half regrets to kiss it dry;
So sweet the blush of bashfulness,
Even pity scarce can wish it less.
Her walk is like the wind; her smiles more sweet
Than sunshine when it gilds the buds of May.
Rare words she has, and merry, like the lark,
And songs, which were too sweet, but that sometimes
They droop, and sadden like the pining flute;
And then her eyes, (soft planets,) lose their light
In bashful rain, o'er which her cloudy hair
Hangs, like the night protecting.
BATH-BATHING.
THE delighted spirit,
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice.
The gallants dancing by the river's side,
They bathe in summer, and in winter slide.
We do our nature wrong,
Neglecting over long
The bodily joys that help to make us wise;
The ramble up the slope
Of the high mountain cope
The long day's walk, the vigorous exercise,
The fresh, luxurious bath,
Far from the trodden path,
Or 'mid the ocean waves dashing with harmless roar, Lifting us off our feet upon the sandy shore.
THEREWITH they 'gan, both furious and fell,
To thunder blowes, and fiercely to assaile
Each other, bent his enemy to quell,
That with their force they perst both plate and maile,
And made wide furrows in their fleshes fraile,
That it would pity any living eye.
Large floods of blood adowne their sides did raile,
But floods of blood could not them satisfie:
Both hungred after death; both chose to win or die.
Much work for tears in many an English mother,
Whose sons lie scatter'd on the bleeding ground:
Many a widow's husband grovelling lies,
Coldly embracing the discolour'd earth:
And victory, with little loss, doth play
Upon the dancing banners of the French.-Shakspere.
Of battle now began, and rushing sound
Of onset ended soon each milder thought.
And now, their mightiest quell'd, the battle swerv'd
With many an inroad gor'd; deformed rout
Enter'd and foul disorder; all the ground
With shiver'd armour strown, and on a heap
Chariot and charioteer lay overturn'd,
And fiery foaming steeds.
Now night her course began, and over heaven
Inducing darkness, grateful truce, imposed
Her silence on the odious din of war;
Under her cloudy covert hath retir'd
Victor and vanquished.
See that huge battle moving from the mountains! Their gilt coats shine like dragon's scales, their march Like a rough tumbling storm; see them, and view
And then see Rome no more. Say they fail, look,
Look where the armed cars stand; a new army!
Look, how they hang like falling rocks! as murdering
Death rides in triumph, Drusius, fell destruction
Lashes his fiery horse, and round about him
His many thousand ways to let out souls.
Hark! the death-denouncing trumpet sounds
The fatal charge, and shouts proclaim the onset-
Destruction rushes dreadful to the field,
And bathes itself in blood: havoc let loose
Now undistinguish'd, rages all around;
While ruin, seated on her dreary throne,
Sees the plain strewed with subjects truly hers,
Breathless and cold.
Barons and peasants on th' embattled field,
Slain or half dead, in one huge ghastly heap,
Promiscuously amassed. With dismal groans,
And ejaculation, in the pangs of death,
Some call for aid, neglected; some o'erturned
In the fierce shock, lie gasping, and expire,
Trampled by fiery coursers. Horror thus,
And wild uproar, and desolation, reigned
Unrespited.
When Greeks join'd Greeks, then was the tug of war; The laboured battle sweat, and conquest bled.
But when all is past, it is humbling to tread
O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead,
And see worms of the earth and fowls of the air,
And beasts of the forest, all gathering there;
All regarding man as their prey,
All rejoicing in his decay.
Battle's magnificently stern array.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush'd the steeds to battle driven,
And, louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.
Empires and kings, how oft have temples rung, With impious thanksgiving, the Almighty's scorn! How oft above their altars have been hung,
Trophies that led the good and wise to mourn; Triumphant wrong, battle of battle born, And sorrow that to fruitless sorrow clung!
An armed spectre, o'er a field of blood,
And vanishes! and other armed shades
Pass by; red battle hurtling as they pass.
Spirit of light and life! when battle rears
Her fiery brow and her terrific spears;
When red-mouthed cannon to the clouds uproar,
And gasping thousands make their beds in gore;
While in the bellowing bosom of the air
Roll the dead notes of anguish and despair!
Unseen thou walk'st upon the smoking plain,
And hear'st each groan that gurgles from the slain.
R. Montgomery.
Even like an arrow on the wind he rode
His winged courser, and with noble daring
Swept with his chivalrous escort past our front,
Even at the stormy edge of chafing battle.
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