THE MEN OF FORTY-EIGHT. THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, 393 JOHN KELLS INGRAM. WHо fears to speak of Ninety-eight? Who blushes at the name? When cowards mock the patriot's fate, We drink the memory of the brave, All, all are gone-but still lives on Remember them with pride. Some on the shores of distant lands The dust of some is Irish earth; Among their own they rest; And the same land that gave them birth Has caught them to her breast; And we will pray that from their clay Full many a race may start Of true men, like you, men, To act as brave a part. They rose in dark and evil days Alas! that Might can vanquish Right— They fell and passed away; But true men, like you, men, Are plenty here to-day. Then here's their memory-may it be For us a guiding light, To cheer our strife for liberty, And teach us to unite. THE MEN OF FORTY-EIGHT. THEY rose in Freedom's rare sunrise, Their souls flashed out like naked swords, Strength went like battle with their wordsThe men of Forty-eight; Hurrah! For the men of Forty-eight. Dark days have fallen, yet in the strife So suffering makes men great, Hurrah! Some in a bloody burial sleep, Like Greeks to glory gone, But in their steps avengers leap With their proof-armor on; And hearts beat high with dauntless trust To triumph soon or late, Though they be mouldering down in dustBrave men of Forty-eight! Hurrah! For the men of Forty-eight. O when the world wakes up to worst And Freedom's summons-shout shall burst, Not high raised battlement or labored mound, Thick wall or moated gate; SONNETS. LONDON, 1802, MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour, sea; Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, Not cities proud with spires and turrets So didst thou travel on life's common way crowned; Not bays and broad-armed ports, Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; Not starred and spangled courts, Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. No:-Men, high-minded men, With powers as far above dull brutes endued In forest, brake, or den, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men! Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough Within thy hearing, or thy head be now Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude-O miserable chieftain! where and when Men who their duties know, But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain, Prevent the long-aimed blow, Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow. Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, And crush the tyrant while they rend the Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left be¦ chain: These constitute a State; And sovereign Law, that State's collected will, O'er thrones and globes elate, Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore! Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'Tis folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave. SIR WILLIAM JONES. hind Powers that will work for thee-air, earth. and skies. There's not a breathing of the common wind WILLIAM WORDSWORTH TO A VERY ILLUSTRIOUS NOBLEMAN. SWEET as the silver voice of victory, Enlarging the fair glory of a king, Or that lamenting bird, in Summer free, That to the shepherd's thirsty ear doth sing; As sweet as to divining fancy ring The golden axles of the circling sphere, So sweetly in thy praise, on angel's wing, 1 ! ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY. I mean to soar beyond the solar year; And there, escaped from anguish and from fear, To triumph in the sparkling fount of day, Thy harbinger, that brightly shall appear In that celestial walk; as fair as they Whom Earth, of her heroic race, hath sent, To be her glory, and her argument! LORD THURLOW. ON A BUST OF DANTE. Faithful if this wan image be, A lover in that anchorite? To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight The lips as Cumæ's cavern close, The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin, Not wholly such his haggard look When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed, His palm upon the pilgrim guest, The single boon for which he prayed The convent's charity was rest. Peace dwells not here this rugged face Betrays no spirit of repose; The sullen warrior sole we trace, The marble man of many woes. 395 Such was his mien when first arose War to the last he waged with all O, Time! whose verdicts mock our own, ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY. COME then, tell me, sage divine, Toward immortal Glory's throne? So conciliate reason's choice, As one approving word of her impartial voice. If to spurn at noble praise Be the passport to thy heaven, Than Timoleon's arms acquire, And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre. MARK AKENSIDE. PART VI. POEMS OF COMEDY. O! NEVER wear a brow of care, or frown with rueful gravity, "A soft word oft turns wrath aside," (so says the Great Instructor,. A smile disarms resentment, and a jest drives gloom away; A cheerful laugh to anger is a magical conductor, The deadly flash averting, quickly changing night to day. Then, is not he the wisest man who rids his brow of wrinkles, Who bears his load with merry heart, and lightens it by halfWhose pleasant tones ring in the ear, as mirthful music tinkles, And whose words are true and telling, though they echo in a laugh! So temper life's work-weariness with timely relaxation; ANONYMOUS. |