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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,
Enceladus, fill the air.
Over vineyard and field and town,
Of the crags that keep him down.
'Tis the glare of his awful eyes! And the storm-wind shouts through the pines Of Alps and of Appennines,
“Enceladus, arise !"
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
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,
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
“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
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
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!
SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE.
LABOUR with what zeal we will
Something still remains undone,
Waits the rising of the sun.
By the bedside, on the stair,
At the threshold, near the gates,
Like a mendicant it waits;
Waits, and will not go away;
Waits, and will not be gainsaid:
Each to-day is heavier made;
Till at length the burden seems
Greater than our strength can bear;
And we stand from day to day,
Like the dwarfs of times gone by,
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 so long to give or ask;
Am weary, thinking of your task.
O little hearts ! that throb and beat
Such limitless and strong desires;
Now covers and conceals its fires.
O little souls! as pure and white
Direct from heaven, their source divine;
How lurid looks this soul of mine!
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow,
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
The troubled sky reveals
This is the poem of the Air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
Now whispered and revealed