Page images
PDF
EPUB

There was heard a heavy clang,

As of steel-girt men the tread;

And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang
With a sounding thrill of dread;

And the holy chant was hushed awhile,
As, by the torches' flame,

A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle,
With a mail-clad leader came.

He came with haughty look,

An eagle-glance and clear,

But his proud heart through its breastplate shook,
When he stood beside the bier!

He stood there still with a drooping brow,
And clasped hands o'er it raised;—

For his father lay before him low,

It was Coeur-de-Lion gazed!

And silently he strove

With the workings of his breast,

But there's more in late repentant love
Than steel may keep suppressed!
And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain
Men held their breath in awe,

For his face was seen by his warrior-train,
And he recked not that they saw.

He looked upon the dead,

And sorrow seemed to lie,

A weight of sorrow, even like lead,
Pale on the fast-shut eye.

He stooped-and kissed the frozen cheek,
And the heavy hand of clay,

Till bursting words,-yet all too weak,-
Gave his soul's passion way.

"O, father! is it vain,

This late remorse and deep? Speak to me, father! once again, I weep,-behold, I weep! Alas! my guilty pride and ire!

Were but this work undone,

I would give England's crown, my sire!
To hear thee bless thy son.

[ocr errors]

"Speak to me !-mighty grief
Ere now the dust hath stirred!
Hear me, but hear me !-father, chief,
My king! I must be heard!
Hushed, hushed-how is it that I call,
And that thou answerest not?

When was it thus ?-Woe, woe for all
The love my soul forgot!

"Thy silver hairs I see,

So still, so sadly bright!
And father, father! but for me,

They had not been so white!
I bore thee down, high heart! at last,
No longer couldst thou strive;—
Oh! for one moment of the past,
To kneel and say,- Forgive!'

"Thou wert the noblest king,

On royal throne e'er seen;

And thou didst wear, in knightly ring,

Of all the stateliest mien;

And thou didst prove, where spears are proved the bravest heart,

In war,

-Oh! ever the renowned and loved

Thou wert, and there thou art!

"Thou that my boyhood's guide
Didst take fond joy to be!-
The times I've sported at thy side,
And climbed thy parent-knee!
And there before the blessed shrine,
My sire! I see thee lie,—

How will that sad still face of thine
Look on me, till I die!"

Ex. C.-WHITTLING.

REV. J. PIER PONT.

THE Yankee boy, before he's sent to school,
Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool,

[ocr errors]

The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye
Turns, while he hears his mother's lullaby;
His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it,

Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it;
And in the education of the lad

No little part that implement hath had.
His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings
A growing knowledge of material things.

Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art,
His chestnut whistle, and his shingle dart,
His elder pop-gun with its hickory rod,
Its sharp explosion and rebounding wad,
His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone
That murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone,
Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeed
His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed,

His wind-mill, raised the passing breeze to win,
His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin;
Or, if his father lives upon the shore,

You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor,"
Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers staunch,
And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.

Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife driven
Ere long he'll solve you any problem given;
Make any jim-crack, musical or mute,
A plow, a couch, an organ, or a flute;
Make you a locomotive or a clock,
Cut a canal, or build a floating-dock,
Or lead forth beauty from a marble block;-
Make any thing, in short, for sea or shore,
From a child's rattle to a seventy-four;—

Make it, said I?-Aye, when he undertakes it,

He'll make the thing, and the machine that makes it.

And when the thing is made,-whether it be

To move on earth, in air, or on the sea;
Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide,
Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or slide;
Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring,
Whether it be a piston or a spring,

Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass,
The thing designed shall surely come to pass;

For, when his hand's upon it, you may know
That there's go in it, and he'll make it go.

Ex. CI.-ABSALOM.

N. PARKER WILLIS,

THE waters slept. Night's silvery vail hung low
On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still,
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse.

The reeds bent down the stream; the willow leaves,
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,

Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems,
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And leaned, in graceful attitudes, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashioned for a happier world!
King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem; and now he stood,
With his faint people, for a little rest
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank,
And spoke their kindly words; and, as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh! when the heart is full,-when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such a very mockery,-how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He prayed for Israel; and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those
Whose love had been his shield; and his deep tones
Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom,-
For his estranged, misguided Absalom,-
The proud, bright being, who had burst away,

In all his princely beauty, to defy

The heart that cherished him,-for him he poured,
In agony that would not be controlled,
Strong supplication, and forgave him there,
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straitened for the grave; and, as the folds
Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels, as they swayed
To the admitted air, as glossy now

As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea's girls.

His helm was at his feet: his banner, soiled
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, beside him: and the jeweled hilt,
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he feared the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form
Of David entered, and he gave command,
In a low tone, to his few followers,

And left him with his dead. The king stood still
Till the last echo died: then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:—

"Alas! my

noble boy! that thou shouldst die! Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy Absalom!

"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee.

« PreviousContinue »