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Swept from the sheeted sides the show'ry foam.
Vain, now, were all the seamen's homeward hopes,
Vain all their skill! -we drove before the storm!
'Tis pleasant, by the cheerful hearth, to hear
Of tempests, and the dangers of the deep,
And pause at times, and feel that we are safe;
Then listen to the perilous tale again,
And, with an eager and suspended soul,
Woo terror to delight us;-but to hear
The roaring of the raging elements,
To know all human strength, all human skill,
Avail not to look around, and only see
The mountain wave incumbent, with its weight
Of bursting waters, o'er the reeling bark—
O is this not indeed a dreadful thing?
And he who hath endur'd the horror once,
Of such an hour, doth never hear the storm
Howl round his home, but he remembers it,
And thinks upon the suffering mariner!
EXERCISE PROMOTES HEALTH.
AH! what avail the largest gifts of heaven
When drooping health and spirits go amiss?
How tasteless then whatever can be given;
Health is the vital principle of bliss,
And exercise of health :-in proof of this,
Behold the wretch who flings his life away,
Soon swallow'd in disease's sad abyss;
While he whom toil has brac'd, or manly play,
Has light as air each limb, each thought as clear
Oh! who can speak the vigorous joys of health,
Unclogg'd the body, unobscur'd the mind;
The morning rises gay; with pleasing stealth
The temperate evening falls serene and kind;
In health the wiser brutes true gladness find.
See how the young lambs frisk along the meads
As May comes on, and wakes the balmy wind;
Rampant with joy, their joy all joy exceeds;
Yet what but high-strung health this dancing
I care not, Fortune! what you me deny,
You cannot rob me of free nature's grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora shows her bright'ning face ;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns by living stream at eve:
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the rich children leave;
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave!
ALEXANDER THE GREAT AT THE TOMB OF CYRUS.
The tomb itself was a square building of hewn stone. The chamber was roofed with stone. In the centre stood a couch or bed, supported on golden feet, and covered with purple cushions. On the couch was placed a golden coffin, containing the embalmed body of Cyrus.
BEAUTIFUL silence-all around!
From these glimmering groves doth creep
A solemn shadow o'er our eyes,
More pleasant than a summer sleep.
Beautiful silence-all around!
Save wood-bird unto wood-bird calling; Or, softer still, the lulling sound
Of water through the foliage falling.
Here wisdom with her downcast eye,
From morn to eve might love to dwell;
And Poetry, the gold-hair'd maid,
Might weave her magic spell.
Oh, come with me, thou pilgrim gray,
Worn out with grief and years;
Poor wand'rer in life's winter day,
Stand here and dry thy tears!
Behold that low and narrow door,
That house of massive stone:-
This is the palace of a king,
The master of a throne!
Enter and see-that couch of gold
Is heaving with the purple vest,
Which wooeth, with its amorous fold,
The weary heart to rest!
The ev'ning air is faint and sweet,
As if it crept o'er beauty's bed;
But bright-ey'd pleasure dwells not here—
This is the chamber of the DEAD!
The tomb of Cyrus!-can it be?
The chieftain, at whose nod
The armies of the earth did flee,-
The 'shepherd of our God.'
Prince of the princes of old time!
O, how the silver clarions pour'd
Their music round thee like a flood,
In ancient days, thou Persian lord!
When flashing in the Median sky,
Thy thousand banners were unfurl'dCould not the pale steed pass thee by, Proud monarch of the world?
What need hadst thou of death, great king?
No tear was in thine eye;
But from the cittern's bounding string
Uprose thy name in melody.
And gently o'er thy spirit stole
The darkest and the stormiest day;
For peace was ever round thy soul,
And summer in thy way.
But who art thou, with flushing brow,
That bendest o'er the bed?
Art thou a hermit come to pour
Thy tears upon the dead?
I know, I know thee, mighty one;
I know thee by thy lion-ken;
For valour flasheth from thy face,
Thou greatest among men!
Well thy troubled eye may gleam!
The Grecian shout, the cry of fear, The clangour of ten thousand shields, Are ringing in thine ear.
The battle is around thee still
But wherefore, with that slow-drawn breath, Wanders thy hand unto thy sword?
Thou art alone with Death!
WAKE from your misty nests-instinctive wake,
Ye fine, and numberless, and sleepy things!
The infant saviour of all blossomings
From heav'n's blue womb hath pass'd; and for the
Of Earth, and her green family, doth make
In air redemption and soft gloryings.
The world, as though inspir'd, erectly flings
Its shadowy coronals away, to slake
A holy thirst for light: and one by one,
The enamour'd hills-with many a startled dell,
Fountain and forest-blush before the sun!
Voices and wings are up, and waters swell;
And flowers, like cluster'd shepherds, have begun
To ope their fragant mouths, and heavenly tidings
ALREADY hath the day grown gray with age;
And in the west, like to a conqueror crown'd,
Is faint with too much glory. On the ground
He flings his dazzling arms; and, as a sage,
Prepares him for a cloud-hung hermitage,
Where meditation meets him at the door;
And all around—a wall, and roof, and floor,
Some pensive star unfolds its silver page