SONG, YOUTH, AND SORROW

LOFTY against our Western dawn uprises Achilles:

He among heroes alone singeth or toucheth the lyre.

Few, and dimmed by grief, are the days that to him are appointed!

Love he shall know but to lose, life but to east it away.

Dreaming of peace and a bride, he sees not the foes at the portal:

Paris, a traitor to love; Phabus, accorder of song!

Freely he chose, do ye deem, and clave to the anguish and glory?

Rather the Fates at his birth chose, yet he gladly assents.

Is it a warning that death untimely and

bitterest sorrow,

Sorrow in love, and death, follow the children of song ?

Yet will the young man's heart still cling to the choice of Achilles

Grief, an untimely doom, fame that eternal abides.

MY FATHERLAND

THE imperial boy had fallen in his pride
Before the gates of golden Babylon.
The host, who deemed that priceless
treasure won,

For many a day since then had wandered wide,

"I was a slave in Athens, never knew My native country; but I understand The meaning of yon wild barbarian cries, And I believe this is my fatherland !”

This glimpse have we, no more. Did parents fond,

Brothers, or kinsmen, hail his late return?

Or did he, doubly exiled, only yearn To greet the Euxine's waves at Trebizond, The blue Egean, and Pallas' towers beyond?

Muto is the record. We shall never learn.

But as once more the well-worn page I turn, .

Forever by reluctant schoolboys conned,

A parable to me the tale appears,

Of blacker waters in a drearicr vale.

Ah me! When on that brink we exiles stand,

As earthly lights and mortal accents fail, Shall voices long forgotten reach our ears, To tell us we have found our fatherland?

my fair strong youth,

Veiling mine eyes from the blessed light, and closing my heart to truth. Pity me, Lord, whose mercy passeth my wildest thought,

For I never dreamed of the bitter end of the work my hands had wrought!

In the sweet morn's flush and fragrance I wandered o'er dewy meadows,

Ol' Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin';

An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin' an' a-pshawin';

But Noah did n't min' 'em, knowin' whut wuz gwine to happen:

An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'.

Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o' beas'es

Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces!

He had a Morgan colt an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattle

An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon's he heered de thunder rattle.

Den sech anoder fall ob rain!-it come so awful hebby,

De ribber riz inmejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee;

De people all wuz drownded out-'cep' Noah an' de critters,

An' men he'd hired to work de boat-an' one to mix de bitters.

De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin' an' a-sailin';

De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin';

De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tell, whut wid all de fussin',

You c'u'd n't hardly heal de mate a-bossin' 'roun' an' cussin'.

Now Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de packet,

He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble fur to ring it;

An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?

TO ENGLAND

Now England lessens on my sight;
The bastioned front of Wales,
Discolored and indefinite,

There like a cloud-wreath sails:

A league, and all those thronging bills Must sink beneath the sea;

dar's de

But while one touch of Memory thrills,
They yet shall stay with me.

I claim no birthright in yon sod,
Though thence my blood and name;
My sires another region trod,
Fought for another fame;

Yet a son's tear this moment wrongs

My eager watching eyes,
Land of the lordliest deeds and songs
Since Greece was great and wise!

Thou hedgerow thing that queenest the
Earth,

What magic hast ? — what art?
A thousand years of work and worth
Are clustered at thy heart:

The ghosts of those that made thee free
To throng thy hearth are wont;
And as thy richiest reliquary

Thou wearest thy Abbey's front!

Aye, ere my distance is complete
I see thy heroes come

And crowd yon shadowy mountain seat,
Still guardians of their home;
Thy Drake, thy Nelson, and thy Bruce
Glow out o'er dusky tides;
The rival Roses blend in truce,

And King with Roundhead rides.

And with these phantoms born to last,
A storm of music breaks;
And bards, pavilioned in the past, -
Each from his tomb awakes!
The ring and glitter of thy swords,
Thy lovers' bloom and breath,
By them transmuted into words,

Redeem the world from death.

My path is West! My heart before
Bounds o'er the dancing wave;
Yet something's left I must deplore-
A magic wild and grave:
Though Honor live and Romance dwell
By mine own streams and woods,
Yet not in spire and keep so well
Are built such lofty moods.

England, perchance our love were more
If we were matched and met
In battle squadron on the shore,
Or here on ocean set:

How were all other banners furled
If that great duel rose !
For we alone in all the world
Are worthy to be foes.

If we should fail or you should fly, 'T were but a twinned disgrace, For both are bound to bear on high The laurels of one race: