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"Earth has no mineral strangeThe illimitable air no hidden wingsWater no quality in covert springs,
And fire no power to change
Seasons no mystery, and stars no spell,
"Oh, but for time to track
The upper stars into the pathless sky-
To hurl the lightning back—
To tread unhurt the sea's dim-lighted hallsTo chase Day's chariot to the horizon-walls-for now
"And more, much more
The life-sealed fountains of my nature move-
Of weakness and mistrust, and bow it down,
The soul-thirst slaken at the living stream-
Dim-dim-I faint-darkness comes o'er my eye-
'T was morning, and the old man lay alone.
The storm was raging still. The shutters swung
And all without went on—as aye it will,
Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart
The fire beneath the crucible was out;
And thus had passed from its unequal frame A soul of fire-a sun-bent eagle stricken From his high soaring down-an instrument Broken with its own compass. Oh, how poor Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies, Like the adventurous bird that hath out-flown His strength upon the sea, ambition-wrecked A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest!
THE BITTER GOURD.
BY LEIGH HUNT.
LOKMAN the Wise, therefore the Good (for wise
Was slave once to a lord, jealous though kind,
With simplest reverence, and no surprise, The sage received what stretched the donor's eyes; And, piece by piece, as though it had been food To feast and gloat on, every morsel chewed ; And so stood eating, with his patient beard, Till all the nauseous favour disappeared.
Vexed, and confounded, and disposed to find Some ground of scorn, on which to ease his mind, "Lokman!" exclaimed his master,-"In God's name, Where could the veriest slave get soul so tame? Have all my favours been bestowed amiss?
Or could not brains like thine have saved thee this ?"
Calmly stood Lokman still, as duty stands.—
"O Lokman!" said his lord (and as he spoke,
THE SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI.
'Tis not the grey hawk's flight o'er mountain and mere ; "Tis not the fleet hound's course, tracking the deer; 'Tis not the light hoof-print of black steed or grey, Though sweltering it gallop a long summer's day,
Which mete forth the lordships I challenge as mine;
I clutch in my strong hand,
That can their broad marches and numbers define.
Dull builders of houses, base tillers of earth,
Gaping, ask me what lordships I owned at my birth;
In the fierce battle-fray,
When the star that rules Fate is this falchion's red gleam.
I've heard great harps sounding in brave bower and hall,
The music I love is the shout of the brave,
The yell of the dying,
The scream of the flying,
When this arm wields Death's sickle, and garners the grave.
JOY GIVER! I kiss thee.
Far isles of the ocean thy lightning hath known,
And wide o'er the mainland thy horrors have shone.
Great sword of my father, stern joy of his hand!
Thou hast carved his name deep on the stranger's red
And won him the glory of undying song.
Keen cleaver of gay crests,
Sharp piercer of broad breasts,
Grim slayer of heroes, and scourge of the strong!
In a love more abiding than that the heart knows,
My heart's knit to thine, and lives but for thee;
And noble blood springing,
And cloven, yawn helmet, stout hauberk, and shield.
The smile of a maiden's eye soon may depart;
Thy love will not slumber;
But, starlike, burns fiercer, the darker the night.
My kindred have perished by war or by wave;
And Scalds shall be singing
The deeds we have done in our old fearless day.
THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD.
THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms.