That we may add ourselves to their great glory,
And worship with them. They are there for lights
To light us on our way through heaven to God;
And we, too, have the power of light in us.
Ye stars, how bright ye shine to-night; mayhap
Ye are the resurrection of the worlds,-
Glorified globes of light! Shall ours be like ye?
Nay, but it is! this wild, dark earth of ours,
Whose face is furrowed like a losing gamester's,
Is shining round, and bright, and smooth in air,
Millions of miles off. Not a single path
Of thought I tread, but that it leads to God.
And when her time is out, and earth again
Hath travailed with the divine dust of man,
Then the world's womb shall open, and her sons
Be born again, all glorified immortals.
And she, their mother, purified by fire,
Shall sit her down in heaven, a bride of God,
And handmaid of the Everbeing One.
Our earth is learning all accomplishments
To fit her for her bridehood.
NORMAN'S DESCRIPTION TO VIOLET.
Of the bright lands within the western main,
Where we will build our home, what time the seas
Weary thy gaze;-there the broad palm-tree shades
The soft and delicate light of skies as fair
As those that slept on Eden;-Nature, there,
Like a gay spendthrift in his flush of youth,
Flings her whole treasure in the lap of Time.-
On turfs, by fairies trod, the Eternal Flora
Spreads all her blooms; and from a lake-like sea
Wooes to her odorous haunts the western wind!
While, circling round and upward from the boughs,
Golden with fruits that lure the joyous birds,
Melody, like a happy soul released,
Hangs in the air, and from invisible plumes
Shakes sweetness down!
Ye who have dwelt upon the sordid land,
Amidst the everlasting gloomy war
Of Poverty with Wealth-ye cannot know
How we, the wild sons of the Ocean, mock
At men who fret out life with care for gold.
O! the fierce sickness of the soul-to see
Love bought and sold—and all the heaven-roofed temple
Of God's great globe, the money-change of Mammon !
I dream of love, enduring faith, a heart
Mingled with mine—a deathless heritage
Which I can take unsullied to the stars,
When the Great Father calls his children home;
And in the midst of this Elysian dream,
Lo, Gold-the Demon Gold!-alas! the creeds
Of the false land!-
TELL'S REFUSAL OF HOMAGE TO GESLER'S CAP.
Tell. (Rushing forward.) Off, off, you base and hireling pack!
Lay not your brutal touch upon the thing
God made in his own image. Crouch yourselves;
'Tis your vocation, which you should not call
On free-born men to share with you-who stand
Erect except in presence of their God
· Let them stir-I've scattered
A flock of wolves that did outnumber them
For sport I did it-Sport!-I scattered them
With but a staff, not half so thick as this.
[Wrests Sarnem's weapon from him--Sarnem flies-Soldiers fly Men of Altorf,
What fear ye? See what things you fear-the shows
And surfaces of men. Why stand you wondering there?
Why look you on a man that's like yourselves,
And see him do the deeds yourselves might do,
And act them not? Or know you not yourselves
That ye are men-that ye have hearts and thoughts
To feel and think the deeds of men, and hands
To do them? You say your prayers, and make
Confession, and you more do fear the thing
That kneels to God, than you fear God himself!
You hunt the chamois, and you've seen him take
The precipice, before he'd yield the freedom
His Maker gave him-and you are content
To live in bonds, that have a thought of freedom
Which heaven never gave the little chamois.
Why gaze you still with blanched cheeks upon me?
Lack you the manhood even to look on,
And see bold deeds achieved by others' hands?
Or is't that cap still holds you thralls to fear?—
Be free, then-There! Thus do I trample on
The insolence of Gesler. [Throws down the pole.]
RICHELIEU'S SOLILOQUY.
"IN silence, and at night, the Conscience feels
That life should soar to nobler ends than Power."
So sayest thou, sage and sober moralist!
But wert thou tried? Sublime Philosophy,
Thou art the Patriarch's ladder, reaching heaven,
And bright with beck'ning angels—but, alas!
We see thee, like the Patriarch, but in dreams,
By the first step-dull-slumbering on the earth.
I am not happy!-with the Titan's lust
I wooed a goddess, and I clasp a cloud.
When I am dust, my name shall, like a star,
Shine through wan space, a glory—and a prophet
Whereby pale seers shall from their aery towers
Con all the ominous signs, benign or evil,
That make the potent astrologue of kings.
But shall the Future judge me by the ends
That I have wrought-or by the dubious means
Through which the stream of my renown hath run
Into the many-voiced unfathomed Time?
Foul in its bed lie weeds-and heaps of slime,
And with its waves-when sparkling in the sun,
Oft times the secret rivulets that swell
Its might of waters-blend the hues of blood.
Yet are my sins not those of circumstance,
That all-pervading atmosphere, wherein
Our spirits, like the unsteady lizard, take
The tints that color, and the food that nurtures?
O! ye, whose hour-glass shifts its tranquil sands
In the unvexed silence of a student's cell;
Ye, whose untempted hearts have never tossed
Upon the dark and stormy tides where life
Gives battle to the elements--and man
Wrestles with man for some slight plank, whose weight
Will bear but one-while round the desperate wretch
The hungry billows roar-and the fierce Fate,
Like some huge monster, dim-seen through the surf,
Waits him who drops;-ye safe and formal men,
Who write the deeds, and with unfeverish hand
Weigh in nice scales the motives of the Great,
Ye cannot know what ye have never tried!
History preserves only the fleshless bones
Of what we are-and by the mocking skull
The would-be wise pretend to guess the features!
Without the roundness and the glow of life
How hideous is the skeleton! Without
The colorings and humanities that clothe
Our errors, the anatomists of schools
Can make our memory hideous!
Great uses out of evil tools-and they
In the time to come may bask beneath the light
Which I have stolen from the angry gods,
And warn their sons against the glorious theft,
Forgetful of the darkness which it broke.
I have shed blood-but I have had no foes
Save those the state had-if my wrath was deadly,
'Tis that I felt my country in my veins,
And smote her sons as Brutus smote his own.
And yet I am not happy-blanched and seared
Before my time-breathing an air of hate,
And seeing daggers in the eyes of men,
And wasting powers that shake the thrones of earth
In contest with the insects--bearding kings
And braved by lackies-murder at my bed;
And lone amidst the multitudinous web,
With the dread Three-that are the fates who hold
The woof and shears—the Monk, the Spy, the Headsman. And this is Power! Alas! I am not happy.
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank'
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night,
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica: Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;
There's not the smallest orb, which thou behold'st,
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins:
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.—
Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn;
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear,
And draw her home with music.
You are never merry, when you hear sweet music.
The reason is, your spirits are attentive:
For do but note a wild and wanton herd,
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud,
Which is the hot condition of their blood;
If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,
Or any air of music touch their ears,
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze,
By the sweet power of music: Therefore, the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods;
Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,
But music for the time doth change his nature:
The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus:
Let no such man be trusted.-Mark the music.
From "Merchant of Venice."
THE duke, great Bolingbroke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seemed to know,—
With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course,
While all tongues cried-God save thee, Bolingbroke!
You would have thought the very windows spake,
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