ROBERT TREAT PAINE

FROM

THE RULING PASSION

Life is a print-shop, where the eye may trace
A different outline mark'd in every face:
From chiefs who laurels reap in fields of blood,
Down to the hind who tills those fields for food;
From the lorn nymph in cloister'd abbey pent,
Whose friars teach to love and to repent,
To the young captive in the HARAM's bower,
Blest for a night, and empress of an hour;
From ink's retailers perch'd in garret high,
Cobweb'd around with many a mouldy lie,
Down to the pauper's brat who, luckless wight,
Deep in the cellar first receiv'd the light;
All, all impell'd, as various passions move,
To write, to starve, to conquer, or to love!
All join to shift life's versicolor'd scenes,
Priests, poets, fiddlers, courtesans, and queens.
And be it pride or dress or wealth or fame,
The acting principle is ne'er the same;
Each takes a different rout, o'er hill or vale,
The tangled forest or the greensward dale.

But they who chiefly crowd the field are those
Who live by fashion-CONSTABLES and BEAUS.
The first, I ween, are men of high report,
The LAW's staff-officers, and known at court.
The last, sweet elves, whose rival graces vie
To wield the snuff-box or enact a sigh,
To Fashion's gossamer their lives devote,
The frize, the cane, the cravat, and the coat;
In taste unpolish'd, yet in ton precise,
They sleep at theatres and wake at dice,
While, like the pilgrim's scrip or soldier's pack,
They carry all their fortune on their back.

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From FOPS we turn to PEDANTS-deep and dull,
Grave without sense, o'erflowing yet not full.
See the lank BOOK-WORM, pil'd with lumbering lore,
Wrinkled in Latin and in Greek fourscore,

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With toil incessant thumbs the ancient page,
Now blots a hero, now turns down a sage.
O'er learning's field with leaden eye he strays,
Mid busts of fame and monuments of praise;
With Gothic foot he treads on flowers of taste,
Yet stoops to pick the pebbles from the waste.
Profound in trifles, he can tell how short
Were Æsop's legs, how large was TULLY's wart;
And scal'd by GUNTER, marks with joy absurd
The cut of HOMER'S cloak and EUCLID'S beard.
Thus through the weary watch of sleepless night
This learned ploughman plods in piteous plight;
Till the dim taper takes French leave to doze,
And the fat folio tumbles on his toes.

1797.

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1797.

All trace will vanish from the sand.
Yet, as if grieving to efface

All vestige of the human race,

On that lone shore loud moans the sea

But none, alas, shall mourn for me!

About 1815.

JOHN NEAL

FROM

THE BATTLE OF NIAGARA

A NIGHT-ATTACK BY CAVALRY

Observed ye the cloud on that mountain's dim green
So heavily hanging, as if it had been

The tent of the Thunderer, the chariot of one
Who dare not appear in the blaze of the sun?

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'T is descending to earth, and some horsemen are now
In a line of dark mist coming down from its brow.
'T is a helmeted band; from the hills they descend
Like the monarchs of storm when the forest trees bend.
No scimitars swing as they gallop along,
No clattering hoof falls sudden and strong,
No trumpet is filled and no bugle is blown,
No banners abroad on the wind are thrown,

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No shoutings are heard and no cheerings are given,

No waving of red-flowing plumage to heaven,
No flashing of blades and no loosening of reins,

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No neighing of steeds and no tossing of manes,
No furniture trailing, or warrior helms bowing,
Or crimson and gold-spotted drapery flowing;
But they speed like coursers whose hoofs are shod
With a silent shoe from the loosened sod.

Dark and chill is the sky, and the clouds gather round; There's nought to be seen, yet there comes a low sound As if something were near that would pass unobserved. O, if 't is that band, may their right-arms be nerved! Hark, a challenge is given! a rash charger neighsAnd a trumpet is blown-and lo, there's a blazeAnd a clashing of sabres is heard, and a shout

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The horseman's thick plume and the foot-soldier's feather. The battle is up! and the thunder is pealing,

And squadrons of cavalry coursing and wheeling
And line after line in their light are revealing.

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One troop of high helms thro' the fight urge their way,
Unbroken and stern, like a ship thro' the spray:
Their pistols speak quick, and their blades are all bare,
And the sparkles of steely encounter are there.

Away they still speed! with one impulse they bound, 40 With one impulse alike, as their foes gather round, Undismayed, undisturbed; and above all the rest

One rides o'er the strife like a mane o'er its crest,
And holds on his way thro' the scimitars there
All plunging in light, while the slumbering air
Shakes wide with the rolling artillery-peal.
The tall one is first; and his followers deal
Around and around their desperate blows,
Like the army of shadows above when it goes

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With the smiting of shields and the clapping of wings,
When the red-crests shake and the storm-pipe sings,
When the cloud-flag unfurls and the death-bugles sound,
When the monarchs of space on their dark chargers bound,
And the shock of their cavalry comes in the night
With furniture flashing and weapons of light..
So travelled this band in its pomp and its might.

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Away they have gone! and their path is all red,
Hedged in by two lines of the dying and dead-
By bosoms that burst unrevenged in the strife,
By swords that yet shake in the passing of life;
For so swift had that pageant of darkness sped,
So like a trooping of cloud-mounted dead,
That the flashing reply of the foe that was cleft
But fell on the shadows those troopers had left.

Far and away they are coursing again
O'er the clouded hill and the darkened plain;

Now choosing the turf for their noiseless route,

Now where the wet sand is strown thickest about,

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Streams their long line: like a mist troop they ride
In a winding cloud o'er the near mountain's side,
While a struggling moon throws a lustre as dim
As a sepulchre's lamp, and the vapours that swim
O'er the hills and the heavens divide as they fly—
The videttes of winds that are stationed on high.

LAKE ONTARIO

Here sleeps ONTARIO. Old Ontario, hail!
Unawed by conquering prow or pirate sail,
Still heaving in thy freedom, still unchained,
Still swelling to the skies, still unprofaned,
As when thy earliest, freest children flew
Like hawks to battle, when the swift canoe
From every shore went dipping o'er the tide

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Like birds that, stooping from the far cliff, ride

A moment on the billow, shriek and rise

With loaded talons, wheeling to the skies.

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The heaven's blue counterpart, the murmuring home

Of spirits shipwrecked in the ocean-foam,
Reflector of the arch that 's o'er thee bent,
Thou watery sky thou liquid firmament!
Mirror of garland-weaving Solitude:

The wild festoon, the cliff, the hanging wood,
The soaring eagle and the wing of light,
The sunny plumage and the starry flight
Of dazzling myriads in a cloudless night.
Peace to thy bosom, dark Ontario!
For ever thus may thy free waters flow
In their rude loveliness; thy lonely shore
For ever echo to the sullen roar

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Of thine own deep; thy cliffs for ever ring
With calling wild men in their journeying,
The savage chant, the panther's smothered cry
That from her airy height goes thrilling by.

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Be ever thus, as now, magnificent

In savage Nature's pomp, unbowed, unbent,
And thou wilt ever be omnipotent!

THE HOUR OF QUIET ECSTACY

It is that hour of quiet ecstacy
When every ruffling wind that passes by

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