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Half doubting if even death could quell

Such terrible renown;
Now mid the torch's solemn glare,
And bended knee, and mutter'd prayer,
Within that green sepulchral glen
Uncover'd groups of warrior men
Breathless perform the high behest

Of winning back, in priceless trust,
For the regenerated West,

Your victim's mighty dust. Hark! how they burst your cramps and ringsHa, ha! ye banded, baffled kings ! Stout men! delve on with axe and bar, Ye're watch'd from yonder restless star : Hew the tough masonry away

Bid the tomb's ponderous portals fly! And firm your sounding levers sway,

And loud your clanking hammers ply; Nor falter though the work be slow, Ye something gain in every blow, While deep each heart in chorus sings, “ Ha, ha! ye banded, baffled kings!" Brave men! delve on with axe and bar, Ye're watch'd from yonder glorious star. 'Tis morn- -the marble floor is cleft, And slight and short the labour left; "Tis noon

--they wind the windlass now To heave the granite from his brow: Back to each gazer's waiting heart The life-blood leaps with anxious startDown Bertrand's cheek the tear-drop stealsLow in the dust Las Casas kneels, (Oh! Tried and trusted-still, as long

As the true beart's fidelity
Shall form the theme of harp and song,

High bards shall sing of ye!)
One moment, and thy beams, O sun !
The bier of him shall look upon,
Who, save the heaven-expell’d, alone
Dared envy thee thy blazing throne;
Who haply oft, with gaze intent,

And sick from victory's vulgar war,
Panted to sweep the firmament,

And dash thee from thy car,
And cursed the clay that still confined
His narrow conquests to mankind.
'Tis done-his chiefs are lifting now
The shroud from that tremendous brow,
That with the lightning's rapid might
Illumed Marengo's awful night-
Flash'd over Lodi's murderous bridge,
Swept Prussia from red Jena's ridge,
And broke once more the Austrian sword
By Wagram's memorable ford.
And may man's puny race, that shook
Before the terrors of that look,
Approach unshrinking now, and see
How far corruption's mastery
Has tamed the tyrant-tamer ?

That silken cloud, what meet: the gaze?
The scanty dust, or whitening bones,

Or fleshless jaws' horrific mirth,

Of him whose threshold-steps were thrones,

A mockery now to earth? No-even as though his haughty clay Scoff'd at the contact of decay, And from his mind's immortal flame Itself immortalized became, Tranquilly there Napoleon lies reveald, Like a king sleeping on his own proud shield, Harness'd for conflict, and that eagle-star, Whose fire-eyed legion foremost waked the war, Still on his bosom, tarnish'd too and dim, As if hot battle's cloud had lately circled him. Fast fades the vision from that glen Wind slow those aching-hearted men, While every mountain echo floats, Fill'd with the bugle's regal notesAnd now the gun's redoubled roar

Tells the lone peak and mighty main,
Beneath his glorious Tricolor

Napoleon rests again!
And France's galley soon the sail
Shall spread triumphant to the gale;
Till lost upon the lingering eye,
It melts and mingles in the sky.
Let Paris, too, prepare a show,
And deck her streets in gaudy wo;
And rear a more than kingly shrine,

Whose ta pers' blaze shall ne'er be dim,
And bid the sculptor's art divine

Be lavish'd there for him,
And let him take his rest serene,
(Even so he will'd it) by the Seine;
But ever to the poet's heart,

Or pilgrim musing o'er those pages (Replete with marvels) that impart

His story unto ages,
The spacious azure of yon sea
Alone his minster floor shall be,
Coped by the stars-red evening's smile
His epitaph ; and thou, rude Isle,
Austerely-brow'd and thunder rent,
Napoleon's only monument !


Sound to the sun thy solemn joy for ever!

Roll forth the enormous gladness of thy waves, Mid boundless bloom, thou bright majestic river,

Worthy the giant land thy current laves ! Each bend of beauty, from the stooping cliff, Whose shade is dotted by the fisher's skiff, From rocks embattled, that. abrupt and tall, Heave their bulk skyward like a castle-wall, And hem thee in, until the Rapids hoarse Split the huge marble with an earthquake's force, To where thy waves are sweet with summer scents, Flung from the Highland's softer lineamentsEach Jovelier change thy broadening billows take, Now sweeping on, now like some mighty lake, Stretching away where evening-tinted isles Woo thee to linger mid their rosy smiles

The lonely cove—the village-humming hill-
The green dell lending thee its fairy rill-
All, all, are old familiar scenes to one
Who tracks thee but by fancy's aid alone.
Yet well his boy hood's earnest hours adored
Thy haunted headlands, since he first explored
With Weld the vast and shadowy recesses
Of their grand woods and verdant wildernesses ;
Since first he open'd the enchanted books
(Whose words are silver liquid as the brook's)
Of that loved wanderer, who told the west
Van Winkle's wondrous tale, and fill'd each breast
By turns with awe, delight, or blithe emotion,

Painting the life thy forest-shadows knew, What time the settlers, crowding o'er the ocean,

Spread their white sails along thy waters blue. Theirs were the hearts true liberty bestows

The valour that adventure lights in men; . And in their children still the metal glows,

As well can witness each resounding glen Of the fair scene, whose mellow colours shine

Beneath the splendour of yon evening orb, That sinks serene as WASHINGTON's decline, Whose memory here should meaner thoughts

absorb. Hore rose the ramparts, never rear'd in vain When Justice smites in two the oppressor's chain; Here, year on year, through yonder heaven of blue, The bomb's hot wrath its rending volleys threw Against those towers, which, scorning all attack, Still roll'd the assailants' shatter'd battle back; Till, as they fled in final rout, behind Soar'd the Republic's flag, high-floating in the wind! Long may that star-emblazoned banner wave Its folds triumphant o'er a land so brave, Fann'd by no breeze but that which wafts us now The laugh of Plenty, leaning on the plough. And should Columbia's iron-hearted men Try the fierce fortune of the sword again, Be theirs to wield it in no wanton cause, Fired by no braggart orators' applause, In no red conflict, whose unrighteous tide Could call nor Truth nor Mercy to their side, So may their empire still supremely sweep From age to age the illimitable deep, With sway surpassing all but her proud reign, Whose hami reposes on her lion's maneThe Ocean Queen-within whose rude isle lock'd Their own stern fathers' infancy was rock'd; Where first they breathed, amid the bracing north, Fair Freedom's spirit, till she sent them forthHer cloud above their exodus unfurl'dTo spread her worship o'er a second world.

Be it lost in the trumpet's magnificent wo,

From the Bosphorus swelling,

To Christendom telling That the fiery Rome-tramplers' descendant is low. By the Prophet! remember his terrible mirth, When he swept the Janitzars as stubble from earth; On the domes of Sophia like midnight he stood, The avenger of Selim's and Mustapha's blood! Red dogs of rebellion, with tearing and yell

And chain'd valour's despair,

In their own savage lair, Mow'd down beneath cannon and carbine they fell. Raise the song to the mighty! high Mahmoud,

whose stroke In a moment the fetters of centuries broke! Far kings of the west, how your trophies grow dim In the light of the fame that awaiteth for him! The contemner of Korans, who, girded by foes,

The Ark of salvation

First launch'd for his nation, When the press mid the curses of fanatics rose. Hu Alla-hu Alla! the blest caravan Is in sight from Damascus, and Mecca is wanSheik and Imam are trembling with terror and awe, For this Cadmus of Caliphs has laugh'd at the law: Fair painting must sully the Prophet's proud tomb,

For Athenè, not loth,

Has left Greece to the Goth,
And planted her arts-shading olive in Roum.
In vain, Ghazi-Sultaun! when Pera's sweet shore
In the blue of Propontis is rosy no more-
When Olympus no longer on Thrace looks abroad,
And the name of the Frank shall not signify fraud,
Then the slaves shall be worthy the war-vest, and

When thy spirit imparts

To their recreant hearts
Its grandeur, thy horse-tails may flap over men.
Sound the trump for the mighty! great Allah thy


With Azrel, the angel unsparing, is gone!
While round his shrunk borders the thunder was

growling, And the Muscovite wolves thickly herded were

howling, And snufling the gales that, refreshingly cool,

On their merciless thirst

In wild redolence burst, Where, bulwark'd in gold, blush the brides of Stain

boul. Sound the trump for the mighty! he died ere the

tramp of the terror-horsed Tartar who dash'd from the

camp Stay'd his soul with the tale that his dastardly hordes Lay reap'd upon Nekshib, where sickles were

swords ! And the lords of the spear's haughty kingdom has

To the Rebel and Hun!

And the death-song is done:
But thy praise shall not perish, lost Mahmoud the

Last !



Raise the song to the mighty, whose glory shall die When the moon of his empire has dropp'd from the

sky; And if wail be awaken'd for him who smote down Grim bigotry's Moloch, guilt's bloody renown,


Mr. Faber is a young clergyman of the the summer of 1844. His style is simple established church, and is the author of and poetical, and his productions are geneThe Cherwell Water-Lily and other Poems, rally serious in sentiment and earnest in published in 1840, and Sir Launcelot, in thought.


The dew falls fast, and the night is dark,
And the trees stand silent in the park ;
And winter passeth from bough to bough,
With stealthy foot that none may know;
But little the old man thinks he weaves
His frosty kiss on the ivy leaves.
From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall

The river droppeth down,
And it washeth the base of a pleasant hall

On the skirts of Cambridge town.
Old trees by night are like men in thought,
By poetry to silence wrought;
They stand so still and they look so wise,
With folded arms and half-shut eyes,
More shadowy than the shade they cast
When the wan moonlight on the river past.
The river is green, and runneth slow-

We cannot tell what it saith;
It keepeth its secrets down below,

And so doth Death !

From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall

The river droppeth down,
As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall

On the skirts of Cambridge town.
But fainter and fainter thy bright eyes grew,
And redder and redder that rosy hue;
And the half-shed tears that never fell,
And the pain within thou wouldst not tell,
And the wild, wan smile,--all spoke of death,
That had wither'd my chosen with his breath.
The river is green, and runneth slow-

We cannot tell what it saith : It keepeth its secrets down below,

And so doth Death!

Oh! the night is dark ; but not so dark
As my poor soul in this lonely park:
There are festal lights by the stream, that fall,
Like stars, from the casements of yonder hall
But harshly the sounds of joyaunce grate
On one that is crush'd and desolate.
From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall

The river droppeth down,
As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall

On the skirts of Cambridge town.
O Mary! Mary! could I but hear
What this river saith in night's still ear,
And catch the faint whispering voice it brings
From its lowlands green and its reedy springs:
It might tell of the spot where the graybeard's spade
Turn'd the cold wet earth in the lime-tree shade.
The river is green, and runneth slow-

We cannot tell what it saith : It keepeth its secrets down below,

And so doth Death!

'Twas o'er thy harp, one day in June,
I marvell’d the strings were out of tune;
But lighter and quicker the music grew,
And deadly white was thy rosy hue;
One moment-and back the colour came,
Thou calledst me by my Christian name.
From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall

The river droppeth down,
As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall

On the skirts of Cambridge town.
Thou badest me be silent and bold,
But my brain was hot, and my heart was cold.
I never wept, and I never spake,
But stood like a rock where the salt seas break;
And to this day I have shed no tear
O'er my blighted love and my chosen's bier.
The river is green, and runneth slow-

We cannot tell what it saith : It keepeth its secrets down below,

And so doth Death!

I stood in the church with burning brow,
The lips of the priest moved solemn and slow.
I noted each pause, and counted each swell,
As a sentry numbers a minute-bell;
For unto the mourner's heart they call
From the deeps of that wondrous ritual.
From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall

The river droppeth down,
As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall

On the skirts of Cambridge town. My spirit was lost in a mystic scene, Where the sun and moon in silvery sheen Were belted with stars on emerald wings, And fishes and beasts, and all fleshly things,

For death was born in thy blood with life
Too holy a fount for such sad strife :
Like a secret curse from hour to hour
The canker grew with the growing flower;
And little we deem'd that rosy streak
Was the tyrant's seal on thy virgin cheek.

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And the spheres did whirl with laughter and mirth
Round the grave forefather of the earth.
The river is green, and runneth slow-

We cannot tell what it saith :
It keepeth its secrets down below,

And so doth Death!
The dew falls fast, and the night is dark ;
The trees stand silent in the park.
The festal lights have all died out,
And naught is heard but a lone owl's shout.
The mists keep gathering more and more;
But the stream is silent as before.
From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall

The river droppeth down,
As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall

On the skirts of Cambridge town.
Why should I think of my boyhood's bride
As I walk by this low-voiced river's side ?
And why should its heartless waters seem
Like a horrid thought in a feverish dream?
But it will not speak; and it keeps in its bed
The words that are sent us from the dead.
The river is green, and runneth slow-

We cannot tell what it saith;
It keepeth its secrets down below,

And so doth Death!

But we too soon from our safe place were driven;

The world broke in upon our orphan'd life. Dawnings of good, young powers that look'd to

Heaven, It left untillid for what seem'd manlier strife; Like a too early summer, bringing fruit Where spring perchance had meant another shoot! Some begin life too soon,-like sailors thrown

Upon a shore where common things look strange! Like them they roam about a foreign town,

And grief awbile may own the force of change. Yet, though one hour new dress and tongue may

please, Our second thoughts look homeward, ill at ease. Come then unto our childhood's wreck again

The rocks hard by our father's early grave; And take the few chance treasures that remain,

And live through manhood upon what we save. So shall we roam the same old shore at will! In the fond faith that we are children still. Christian ! thy dream is now-it was not then:

Oh! it were strange if childhood were a dream. Strife and the world are dreams: to wakeful men

Childhood and home as jealous angels seem : Like shapes and hues that play in clouds at even, They have but shifted from thee into heaven!


THE GLIMPSE. Our many deeds, the thoughts that we have thought,

They go out from us, thronging every hour;

And in them all is folded up a power That on the earth doth move them to and fro: And mighty are the marvels they have wrought

In hearts we know not, and may never know. Our actions travel and are veil'd : and yet

We sometimes catch a fearful glimpse of one,

When out of sight its march hath well-nigh gone; An unveil'd thing which we can ne'er forget! All sins it gathers up into its course, And they do grow with it, and are its force : One day, with dizzy speed that thing shall come, Recoiling on the heart that was its home.

Dost thou remember how we lived at home

That it was like an oriental place, (come Where right and wrong, and praise and blame did

By ways we wonder'd at and durst not trace; And gloom and sadness were but shadows thrown From griefs that were our sire's and not our own? It was a moat about our souls, an arm

Of sea, that made the world a foreign shore ; And we were too enamour'd of the charm

To dream that barks might come and waft us o'er. Cold snow was on the hills; and they did wear Too wild and wan a look to tempt us there. We had traditions of our own, to weave

A web of creed and rite and sacred thought; And when a stranger, who did not believe

As they who were our types of God had taught, Came to our home, how harsh his words did seem Like sounds that mar, but cannot break a dream. And then in Scripture some high things there were,

Of which, they said, we must not read or talk; And we, through fear, did never trespass there,

But made our Bibles like our twilight walk In the deep woodlands, where we durst not roam To spots from whence we could not see our home. Albeit we fondly hoped, when we were men,

To learn the lore our parents loved so well, And read the rites and symbols which were then

But letters of a word we could not spellChurch-bells, and Sundays when we did not play, And sacraments at which we might not stay.

And, therefore, when I look into my heart,

And see how full it is of mighty schemes,

Some that shall ripen, some be ever dreams, And yet, though dreams, shall act a real part: When I behold of what and how great things I am the cause ; how quick the living springs That vibrate in me, and how far they go,Thought doth but seem another name for fear;

And I would fain sit still and never rise To meddle with myself, -God feels so near. And, all the time, he moveth, calm and slow

And unperplex'd, though naked to His eyes A thousand thousand spirits pictured are, Kenn'd through the shroud that wraps the heaven

of heavens afar !


TO A LITTLE BOY. Dear little one! and can thy mother find

In those soft lineaments, that move so free

To smiles or tears, as holiest infancy About thy heart its glorious web doth wind, A faithful likeness of my sterner mind?

Ah! then there must be times, unknown to me, When my lost boyhood, like a wandering air,

Comes for a while to pass upon my face,

Giving me back the dear familiar grace O'er which my mother pour’d her last fond prayer. But sin and age will rob me of this power;

Though now my heart, like an uneasy lake,

Some broken images, at times, may take From forms which fade more sadly every hour!

And bears them down through many a winding cell,
Where the soul's busy agents darkly dwell;
Each watching by his wheel, that, bright and bare,

Revolveth day and night, to do its part

In building up for heaven one single heart. And moulds of curious form are scatter'd there, As yet unused,—the shapes of after deeds: And veiled growths and thickly sprouting seeds Are strewn, in which our future life doth lie, Sketch'd out in dim and wondrous prophecy.

THE SIGNS OF THE TIMES. Tae days of old were days of might

In forms of greatness moulded, And flowers of heaven grew on the earth,

Within the church unfolded ; For grace fell fast as summer dew, And saints to giant stature grew.

THE AFTER-STATE. A spirit came upon me in the night;

And led me gently down a rocky stair,

Unto a peopled garden, green and fair, Where all the day there was an evening light. Trees out of every nation blended there ;

The citron shrub its golden fruit did train Against an English elm.—'Twas like a dream, Because there was no wind; and things did seem

All near and big-like mountains before rain. Far in those twilight bowers, beside a stream, The soul of one who had but lately died Hung listening, with a brother at his side: And no one spoke in all that haunted place, But lookéd quietly into each other's face !

But, one by one, the gifts are gone

That in the church resided, And gone the spirit's living light

That on her walls abided, When by our shrines He came to dwell In power and presence visible. A blight hath past upon the church,

Her summer hath departed,
The chill of age is on her sons,

The cold and fearful-hearted :
And sad, amid neglect and scorn,
Our mother sits and weeps forlorn.
Narrow and narrower still each year

The holy circle groweth,
And what the end of all shall be

No man nor angel knoweth:
And so we wait and watch in fear;
It may be that the Lord is near!

THE WHEELS. There are strange, solemn times when serious men

Sink out of depth in their own spirit, caught

All unawares, and held by some strong thought That comes to them, they know not how or when,

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