For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill ;
And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper"
To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.
What are the hopes of man? old Egypt's king,
Cheops, erected the first pyramid
And largest, thinking it was just the thing
To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid;
But somebody or other, rummaging,
Burglariously broke his coffin's lid.
Let not a monument give you or me hopes,
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.
XCIX-FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY.
BEN BATTLE was a soldier bold,
And used to war's alarms :
But a cannon-ball took off his legs,
So he laid down his arms!
Now as they bore him off the field,
Said he, "Let others shoot,
For here I leave my second leg,
And the Forty-second Foot!"
The army surgeons made him limbs :
Said he,-"They're only pegs :
But there's as wooden members quite,
As represent my legs!"
Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,
Her name was Nelly Gray;
So he went to pay her his devoirs,
When he'd devoured his pay!
But when he called on Nelly Gray,
She made him quite a scoff,
And when she saw his wooden legs;
Began to take them off!
PAT JENNINGS in the upper gallery sat,
But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat:
Down from the gallery the beaver flew,
And spurned the one to settle in the two.
How shall he act? Pay at the gallery door
Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four?
Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait,
And gain his hat again at half-past eight?
Now, while his fears anticipate a thief,
John Mullins whispers, "Take my handkerchief."
"Thank you," cries Pat; "but one won't make a line." "Take mine," cried Wilson; and cried Stokes, "Take mine."
A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties,
Where Spitalfields with real India vies.
Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted clue,
Starred, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue,
Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.
George Green below, with palpitating hand,
Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band-
Up soars the prize! The youth with joy unfeigned,
Regained the felt, and felt what he regained.
While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat
Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat.
CI-CAPTURE OF THE ALHAMBRA.
WHY need I tell of the affray,
The dreadful deeds of that famed day;
Of the bright field o'erspread
With the down-trodden knights and grooms,
Helms, turbans, spears, and dripping plumes,
The dying and the dead.
Of Spain's loud war-note rising o'er
The wild, shrill lelics of the Moor,
Of wail and feeble moan,
Of shout that loud of triumph told,
Of taunting laugh and fiend-like yell,
And curse, and stifled groan;
Crescent, and Cross, and banner rent,
Lance, scimitar together blent,
Of ringing plate and steel,
Of splintered corselet, battered casque,
Of those that scorned their lives to ask,
Beat down by hoof and heel.
Upon the tottering walls of strife,
Christian and Moslem, life for life,
Vengeance for vengeance due.
Of woman's shriek and startling cry,
Rising and blending fearfully
With oath and imprecation high,
The din of battle through;
While shattered tower gave back again
The echo of each warlike strain,
"Strike for Castile! St. James for Spain !"
"Allah! il Allah, hu!"
Of deadly thrusts, and rain-like blows,
Of steeds without their riders, those
Unheeded left to die;
Of death-cold brow and deep gashed breast,
A bloody scarf and dented crest,
Blanched lip and glassy eye!
Why tell of these; enough to say,
For Ferdinand 'twas a glorious day:
The Moor was conquered in the fight;
The Christian banner waved that night
Above the city's lofty walls;
The Spaniard trod the Alhambra halls
The blow was struck, the deed was done,
Grenada from the Moslem won.
CII-THE SEER.
I HEAR the far-off voyager's horn,
I see the Yankee's trail;
His foot on every mountain pass,
On every stream his sail.
He's whittling round St. Mary's falls,
Upon his loaded wain ;
He's leaving on the pictured rocks
His fresh tobacco stain.
I hear the mattock in the mine,
The axe stroke in the dell,
The clamor from the Indian lodge,
The Jesuit's chapel bell.
I see the swarthy trappers come
From Mississippi's springs;
The war-chiefs with their painted bows,
And crest of eagle wings.
Behind the scared squaw's birch canoe,
The steamer smokes and raves;
And city lots are staked for sale
Above old Indian graves.
By forest, lake, and waterfall,
I see the pedlar's show—
The mighty mingling with the mean,
The lofty with the low.
I hear the tread of pioneers
Of nations yet to be;
The first low wash of waves that soon
Shall roll a human sea.
The rudiments of empire here
Are plastic yet and warm;
The chaos of a mighty world
Is rounding into form.
Each rude and jostling fragment soon
Its fitting place shall find-
The raw material of a State,
Its music and its mind.
And western still, the star, which leads
The New World in its train,
Has tipped with fire the icy spears
Of many a mountain-chain.
The snowy cones of Oregon
Are kindled on its way;
And California's golden sands
Gleam brighter in its ray.
'TWAS sunset's hallow'd time-and such an eve
Might almost tempt an angel heaven to leave.
Never did brighter glories greet the
Low in the warm and ruddy western sky:
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