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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-
“Oh, but for time to track
stars into the pathless skyTo see the invisible spirits eye to eye —
To hurl the lightning back-
“And more, much more—for now
To clear the godlike brow
“ This were indeed to feel
And death- - Aha! I reel
’T was morning, and the old man lay alone.
agony had wrung
Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart
The fire beneath the crucible was out; The vessels of his mystic art lay round, Useless and cold as the ambitious hand That fashioned them; and the small rod, Familiar to his touch for threescore years, Lay on the alembic's rim, as if it still Might vex the elements at its master's will.
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
With simplest reverence, and no surprise,
Vexed, and confounded, and disposed to find
Calmly stood Lokman still, as duty stands.-
THE SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI.
'Tis not the grey hawk's flight o'er mountain and mere ;
Which mete forth the lordships I challenge as mine ;
Ha ! ha! 'tis the good brand
I clutch in my strong hand,
LAND GIVER! I kiss thee.
Dull builders of houses, base tillers of earth,
Trembling, bow to my sway,
In the fierce battle-fray, When the star that rules Fate is this falchion's red gleam.
MIGHT GIVER ! I kiss thee. I've heard great harps sounding in brave bower and hall, I've drunk the sweet music that bright lips let fall, I've hunted in greenwood, and heard small birds sing ; But away with this idle and cold jargoning ! 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,
Keen cleaver of gay crests,
Sharp piercer of broad breasts,
FAME GIVER ! I kiss thee.
In a love more abiding than that the heart knows,
My heart's knit to thine, and lives but for thee;
Where armour is ringing,
And noble blood springing, And cloven, yawn helmet, stout hauberk, and shield.
DEATH GIVER ! I kiss thee. The smile of a maiden's eye soon may depart; And light is the faith of fair woman's heart: Changeful as light clouds, and wayward as wind, Be the passions that govern weak woman's mind. But thy metal's as true as its polish is bright:
When ills wax in number,
Thy love will not slumber;
HEART GLADDENER ! I kiss thee.
While harps shall be ringing,
And Scalds shall be singing
SONG GIVER! I kiss thee.
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.