I learned the language of another world.
I do remember me, that in my youth,
I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome; The trees which grew along the broken arches Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and More near from out the Cæsar's palace came The owl's long cry; and, interruptedly, Of distant sentinels the fitful song Began and died upon the gentle wind.
Some cypresses, beyond the time-worn breach, Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood Within a bowshot, where the Cæsars dwelt, And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst A grove which springs through level battlements, And twines its roots with the imperial hearths; Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth; - But the Gladiator's bloody Circus stands, A noble wreck in ruinous perfection!
While Cæsar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.
And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon All this, and cast a wide and tender light, Which softened down the hoar austerity Of rugged desolation, and filled up, As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries; Leaving that beautiful which still was so, And making that which was not, till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!
The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.
'Tis strange that I recall it at this time;
But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight Even at the moment when they should array Themselves in pensive order.
Immortality.-R. H. DANA, SEN.
Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love? And doth Death cancel the great bond that holds Commingling spirits? Are thoughts that know no bounds, But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out
The Eternal Mind, the Father of all thought, Are they become mere tenants of a tomb?- Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms Of uncreated light have visited, and lived ?· Lived in the dreadful splendor of that throne, Which One, with gentle hand, the veil of flesh Lifting that hung 'twixt man and it, revealed In glory?-throne, before which, even now, Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down, Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed? Souls, that Thee know by a mysterious sense, Thou awful, unseen Presence! are they quenched? Or borne they on, hid from our mortal eyes By that bright day which ends not; as the sun His robe of light flings round the glittering stars? And with our frames do perish all our loves? Do those that took their root, and put forth buds, And their soft leaves unfolded, in the warmth Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty,
Then fade and fall like fair unconscious flowers?
Are thoughts and passions, that to the tongue give speech, And make it send forth winning harmonies, — That to the cheek do give its living glow, And vision in the eye the soul intense With that for which there is no utterance, Are these the body's accidents? — no more ? To live in it, and, when that `dies, go out Like the burnt taper's flame?
A voice within us speaks that startling word, “Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial voices Hymn it unto our souls; according harps, By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars Of morning sang together, sound forth still of our great immortality :
The Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain,
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas,
Join in the solemn, universal song.
Oh! listen, ye, our spirits: drink it in
From all the air. "Tis in the gentle moonlight;
"Tis floating midst Day's setting glories; Night, Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step
Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears:
Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve,
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse,
As one vast mystic instrument, are touched
By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords Quiver with joy in this great jubilee.
The dying hear it; and, as sounds of earth
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls To mingle in this heavenly harmony.
Speech of Moloch.-MILTON.
My sentence is for open war: of wiles, More unexpert, I boast not; them let those Contrive who need, or when they need, not now. For, while they sit contriving, shall the rest, Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait The signal to ascend, sit lingering here Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place Accept this dark, opprobrious den of shame, The prison of his tyranny who reigns
By our delay? No! let us rather choose, Armed with hell-flames and fury, all at once
O'er heaven's high towers to force resistless way,
Turning our tortures into horrid arms
Against the Torturer; when to meet the noise
Of his almighty engine he shall hear Infernal thunder; and, for lightning, see Black fire and horror, shot with equal rage Among his angels; and his throne itself
Mixed with Tartarean sulphur, and strange fire, His own invented torments.—But perhaps The way seems difficult and steep to scale With upright wing against a higher foe. Let such bethink them, (if the sleepy drench Of that forgetful lake benumb not still,) That in our proper motion we ascend Up to our native seat: descent and fall To us is adverse. Who but felt of late,
When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear Insulting, and pursued us through the deep,
With what compulsion and laborious flight
We sunk thus low? The ascent is easy then; The event is feared; should we again provoke Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find To our destruction; (if there be in hell
Fear to be worse destroyed.) What can be worse
Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned
In this abhorred deep to utter woe;
Where pain of unextinguishable fire
Must exercise us without hope of end, The vassals of his anger, when the scourge
Inexorable, and the torturing hour,
Calls us to penance? More destroyed than thus, We should be quite abolished, and expire.
What fear we then? what doubt we to incense
His utmost ire? which, to the height enraged, Will either quite consume us, and reduce To nothing this essential; happier far, Than miserable to have eternal being: Or, if our substance be indeed divine, And cannot cease to be, we are at worst On this side nothing; and by proof we feel Our power sufficient to disturb his heaven, And with perpetual inroads to alarm, Though inaccessible, his fatal throne; Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.
To the Ursa Major.-H. WARE, JR.
With what a stately and majestic step That glorious Constellation of the North Treads its eternal circle! going forth Its princely way amongst the stars in slow
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