Then the forms of the departed He, the young and strong, who cherish'd They, the holy ones and weakly, And with them the Being Beauteous, With a slow and noiseless footstep And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies. Utter'd not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Oh, though oft depress'd and lonely, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, Will mingle with their awful symphonies! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, Which, through the ages that have gone before us, On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; The tumult of each sack'd and burning village; The bursting shell, the gateway wrench'd asunder, Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Given to redeem the human mind from error, The warrior's name would be a name abhorréd! Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain!1 Down the dark future, through long generations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, Peace!' Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! The holy melodies of love arise. MAIDENHOOD. Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies Like the dusk in evening skies! Would that the ninth and tenth verses of this fine poem might be engraved upon the mind and heart of every man and woman, in both hemispheres, that speaks the English tongue! Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Standing, with reluctant feet, Gazing, with a timid glance, Deep and still, that gliding stream Then why pause with indecision, Seest thou shadows sailing by, O thou child of many prayers! Like the swell of some sweet tune, May glides onward into June. Childhood is the bough, where slumber'd Gather, then, each flower that grows Bear a lily in thy hand; Gates of brass cannot withstand : Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth. Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth seal; And that smile, like sunshine, dart THE WARNING. Beware! The Israelite of old, who tore The lion in his path,-when, poor and blind, A pander to Philistine revelry; Upon the pillars of the temple laid His desperate hands, and in its overthrow There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of steel, Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, And shake the pillars of this commonweal, Till the vast temple of our liberties A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. "Beware the pine-tree's wither'd branch! This was the peasant's last good-night; At break of day, as heavenward A voice cried through the startled air, A traveller, by the faithful hound, There, in the twilight cold and gray, LITERARY FAME. Time has a Doomsday-Book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But, as often as a new name is writ ten there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced. These are the high nobility of Nature, Lords of the Public Domain of Thought. Posterity shall never question their titles. But those, whose fame lives only in the indiscreet opinion of unwise men, must soon be as well forgotten as if they had never been. To this great oblivion must most men come. It is better, therefore, that they should soon make up their minds to this: well knowing that, as their bodies must ere long be resolved into dust again, and their graves tell no tales of them, so must their names likewise be utterly forgotten, and their most cherished thoughts, purposes, and opinions have no longer an individual being among men; but be resolved and incorporated into the universe of thought. Yes, it is better that men should soon make up their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or within them, for some higher motive, in what they do, than the approbation of men, which is Fame; namely, their duty; that they should be constantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself. Difficult must this indeed be, in our imperfection; impossible, perhaps, to achieve it wholly. Yet the resolute, the indomitable will of man can achieve much,-at times even this victory over himself; |