Think of your mariners, three hundred men, After long absence in the Indian seas
Upon their peaceful homeward voyage bound, And now, all dangers conquer'd, as they thought, Warping the vessels up their native stream, Their wives and children waiting them at home In joy, with festal preparation made,-
Think of these mariners, their eyes torn out,
Their hands chopped off, turn'd staggering into Ghent, To meet the blasted eye-sight of their friends!
And was not this the Earl? 'Twas none but he! No Hauterive of them all had dared to do it,
Save at the express instance of the Earl!
And now what asks he?!
Three hundred citizens to be surrendered Up to that mercy which I tell you of-
That mercy which your mariners prov'd-which steep'd Courtray and Yprés, Grammont, Bruges, in blood! Three-hundred citizens,-a secret list,
No man knows who-not one can say he's safe- Not one of you so humble, but that still
The malice of some secret enemy
May whisper him to death-and hark-look to it! Have some of you seem'd braver than your fellows, Their courage is their surest condemnation; They are mark'd men—and not a man stands here But may be so!
LESSON CXXVII.
Consumption.-Percival.
There is a sweetness in woman's decay, When the light of beauty is fading away, When the bright enchantment of youth is gone And the tint that glowed, and the eye that shone, And darted around its glance of power,
And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower,
That ever in fabled garden blew Or ever was steeped in fragrant dew, When all that was bright and fair is fled But the loveliness lingering round the dead.
O! there is a sweetness in beauty's close Like the perfume scenting the withered rose, For a nameless charm around her plays
And her eyes are kindled with hallowed rays, And a veil of spotless purity
Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye Like a cloud whereon the queen of night Has poured her softest tint of light;
And there is a blending of white and blue Where the purple blood is melting through The snow of her pale and tender cheek; And there are tones that sweetly speak Of a spirit who longs for a purer day And is ready to wing her flight away.
In the flush of youth, and the spring of feeling, When life like a sunny spring is stealing Its silent steps through a flowery path, And all the endearments that pleasure hath Are poured from her full, o'erflowing horn, When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn; In her lightness of heart to the cheery song The maiden may trip in the dance along, And think of the passing moment that lies Like a fairy dream in her dazzled eyes, And yield to the present, that charms around With all that is lovely in sight and sound, Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit, With the voice of mirth and the burst of wit, And the music that steals to the bosom's core, And the heart, in its fulness, flowing o'er With a few big drops that are soon repressed For short is the stay of grief in her breast ;— In this enlivened and gladsome hour The spirit may burn with a brighter power; But dearer the calm and quiet day
When the heaven-sick soul is stealing away.
And when her sun is low declining, And life wears out with no repining, And the whisper that tells of early death Is soft as the west wind's balmy breath, When it comes at the hour of still repose To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose; And the lip that swelled with a living glow Is pale as a curl of new fallen snow, And her cheek like the Parian stone is fair But the hectic spot that flushes there, When the tide of life from its secret dwelling In a sudden gush is deeply swelling, And giving a tinge to her icy lips Like the crimson rose's brightest tips- As richly red, and as transient too, As the clouds in Autumn's sky of blue, That seem like a host of glory met To honour the sun at his golden set ;— O! then, when the spirit is taking wing How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling, As if she would blend her soul with his In a deep and long-imprinted kiss ;
So fondly the panting camel flies
Where the glassy vapor cheats his eyes, And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest, And the infant shrinks to its mothers breast, And though her dying voice be mute Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute, And though the glow from her cheek be fled And her pale lips cold as the marble dead, Her eye still beams unwonted fires With a woman's love and a saint's desires; And her last fond lingering look is given To the love she leaves, and then to heaven, As if she would bear that love away To a purer world and a brighter day.
Heaven in Prospect.-HENRY VAUGHAN A. D. 1650.
They are all gone into a world of light And I alone sit lingering here: Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear.
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast Like stars upon some gloomy grove;
Or those faint beams in which the hill is dressed After the sun's remove.
1 see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days; My days which are, at best, but dull and hoary Mere glimmerings and decays.
O, holy hope and high humility, High as the heavens above!
These are your walks, and you have showed them me To kindle my cold love.
Dear, beauteous death! the jewel of the just Shining nowhere but in the dark,
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may At first sight if the bird be flown;
But what fair field or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown.
And yet as angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul, when man doth sleep,
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes And into glory peep.
O, Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under thee,
Resume thy Spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty.
Address to the Ocean.-BYRON.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin-his control Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffin'd, and unknow.
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee— Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts; not so thou, Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play— Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow, Such as Creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark heaving-boundless, endless, and sublime- The image of Eternity-the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
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