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They talk together and

say, To-morrow, perhaps to-day,

Enceladus will arise !"

And the old gods, the austere

Oppressors in their strength, Stand aghast and white with fear At the ominous sounds they hear,

And tremble, and mutter, "At length!” Ah me! for the land that is sown

With the harvest of despair,
Where the burning cinders, blown
From the lips of the overthrown

Enceladus, fill the air.
Where ashes are heaped in drifts

Over vineyard and field and town,
Whenever he starts and lifts
His head through the blackened rifts

Of the crags that keep him down.
See, see! the red light shines !

'Tis the glare of his awful eyes! And the storm-wind shouts through the pines Of Alps and of Appennines,

“Enceladus, arise !"

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,

On board of the Cumberland, sloop of war: And at times from the fortress across the bay

The alarum of drums swept past,

Or a bugle blast
From the camp on the shore.

Then far away to the south uprose

A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foe

Was steadily steering its course

To try the force Of our ribs of oak.

Down upon us heavily runs,

Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns,

And leaps the terrible death,

With fiery breath,
From each open port.

We are not idle, but send her straight

Defiance back in a full broadside! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate

Rebounds our heavier hail

From each iron scale
Of the monster's hide.

“Strike your flag!” the rebel cries,

In his arrogant old plantation strain. “Never!” our gallant Morris replies;

“It is better to sink than to yield!"

And the whole air pealed
With the cheers of our men.

Then, like a kraken huge and black,

She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack,

With a sudden shudder of death,

And the cannon's breath
For her dying gasp.

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay,

Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. Lord, how beautiful was thy day!

Every waft of the air

Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead.

Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas!

Ye are at peace in the troubled stream, Ho! brave land! with hearts like these,

Thy flag, that is rent in twain,

Shall be one again, And without a seam!


LABOUR with what zeal we will

Something still remains undone,
Something uncompleted still

Waits the rising of the sun.

By the bedside, on the stair,

At the threshold, near the gates,
With its menace or its prayer,

Like a mendicant it waits;

Waits, and will not go away;

Waits, and will not be gainsaid:
By the cares of yesterday

Each to-day is heavier made;

Till at length the burden seems

Greater than our strength can bear;
Heavy as the weight of dreams,
Pressing on us everywhere.

And we stand from day to day,

Like the dwarfs of times gone by,
Who, as Northmen's legends say,

On their shoulders held the sky,

WEARINESS. O LITTLE feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears,

Must ache and bleed beneath your load; I, nearer to the Wayside Inn Where toil shall cease and rest begin,

Am weary, thinking of your road !

O little hands! that, weak or strong,
Have still to serve or rule so long,

Have still so long to give or ask;
I, who so much with book and pen
Have toiled among my fellow-men,

Am weary, thinking of your task.

O little hearts ! that throb and beat
With such impatient, feverish heat,

Such limitless and strong desires;
Mine that so long has glowed and burned,
With passions into ashes turned

Now covers and conceals its fires.

O little souls! as pure and white
And crystalline as rays of light

Direct from heaven, their source divine;
Refracted through the mist of years,
How red my setting sun appears,

How lurid looks this soul of mine!


Out of the bosom of the Air,

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,

Silent, and soft, and slow,
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take

Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,

The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the Air,

Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,

Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

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