Methinks thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang,
On earth deliver'd from the deep,
And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the Muse's eye,
Unraptured greet thy beam;
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme.
The earth to thee its incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshen'd fields,
The snowy mushroom springs.
How glorious is thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!
As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.
For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.
44. THE BETTER LAND.
HEAR thee speak of the better land;
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother! oh where is that radiant shore ?—
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle boughs?"
"Not there, not there, my child.”
"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"
"Not there, not there, my child ! ”
"Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?—
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand ?—
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"
"Not there, not there, my child!
"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy!
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,-
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child!"
45. THE MINSTREL-BOY.
HE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him: — "Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, "Though all the world betrays thee, "One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, "One faithful harp shall praise thee."
The Minstrel fell! but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its cords asunder;
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
"Thou soul of love and bravery!
"Thy songs were made for the pure
"They shall never sound in slavery!"
NIGHT is the time for rest;
How sweet, when labours close,
To gather round an aching breast
The curtain of repose, ·
Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head
Upon our own delightful bed!
Night is the time for dreams;
The gay romance of life;
When truth that is, and truth that seems,
Mix in fantastic strife;
Ah! visions less beguiling far,
Than waking dreams by daylight are!
Night is the time for toil;
To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil
Its wealthy furrows yield,
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sung, and heroes wrought.
Night is the time to weep;·
To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory, where sleep
The joys of other years;
Hopes that were angels at their birth,
But died when young, like things of earth.
Night is the time to pray;
Our Saviour oft withdrew To desert mountains far away;
So will his followers do,
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And commune there alone with God.
Night is the time for death;
When all around is peace,
Calmly to yield the weary breath,
From sin and suffering cease,
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends;-that death be mine.
THE shades of night were falling fast.
As through an Alpine village pass'd
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device—
Excelsior!
His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Flash'd like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!
In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above the spectral glaciers shone,
But from his lips escaped a groan,—
Excelsior!
"Try not the Pass!" the old man said:
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
But loud that clarion voice replied —
Excelsior!
"O stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answer'd with a sigh,-
Excelsior!
"Beware the pine-tree's wither'd branch; Beware the awful avalanche !"
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