1822. Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn Of bitter prophecy. The world is weary of the past, Oh, might it die or rest at last! 42 Percy Bysshe Shelley. "HARP OF THE NORTH, FAREWELL!" From The Lady of the Lake HARP of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark, On purple peaks a deeper shade descending; In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark, The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending. Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending, And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy; Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers blending, With distant echo from the fold and lea, And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee. Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp! And little reck I of the censure sharp May idly cavil at an idle lay. Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way, Through secret woes the world has never 9 known, To the Muses When on the weary night dawned wearier day, And bitterer was the grief devoured alone.That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own. Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string! 'T is now a seraph bold, with touch of fire, 'T is now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing. Receding now, the dying numbers ring Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell; And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring A wandering witch-note of the distant spellAnd now, 't is silent all!-Enchantress, fare thee well! 1810. Sir Walter Scott. 18 27 TO THE MUSES WHETHER On Ida's shady brow, Whether in heaven ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Where the melodious winds have birth; 8 Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, Beneath the bosom of the sea, 1783. Wandering in many a coral grove; 12 How have you left the ancient love "THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS" 1807. THE harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, No more to chiefs and ladies bright The chord alone, that breaks at night, Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, Is when some heart indignant breaks, 16 Thomas Moore. THE LOST LEADER Just for a handful of silver he left us, We that had lov'd him so, follow'd him, honor'd him, Liv'd in his mild and magnificent eye, Learn'd his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us,-they watch from their graves! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, -He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! 16 We shall march prospering,-not thro' his presence; Songs may inspirit us,-not from his lyre; Deeds will be done,-while he boasts his qui escence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declin'd, one more foot-path untrod, One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! Life's night begins: let him never come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain, Forced praise on our part-the glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning again! Best fight on well, for we taught him-strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardon'd in heaven, the first by the throne! 1845. 32 Robert Browning. THE VOICE OF TOIL I HEARD men saying, Leave hope and praying, All days shall be as all have been; To-day and to-morrow bring fear and sorrow, The never-ending toil between. |