THE EVENING STAR.
I sit me down at eventide
Day's cares receding far, When sweet! a whisper at my side,
"Mama, come see my star!"
"The only one in all the sky
Away up—Oh, so far! And yet it shines so beautiful,
My own, dear, lovely star!"
Oh! child of many hopes and fears;
Of many an anxious thought; Oh life! with parents' prayers and tears,
So oft from Heaven besought.
If spared to pass the tender years
Of infancy and truth; God keep thee through the slippery path
Of boyhood, and of youth.
And guide thee by His own right hand
In wisdom's pleasant way; And never in foul vice's snares
Permit thy feet to stray.
And when that love which gazeth now
Into thy sunny eyes Can only come, at God's good will
In message from the skies.
Oh! should the tempter's net be spread,
Look upward! do not fear; From 'yond thy star, a mother's love
Will shine thy way to cheer.
If e'er thou reachest manhood's prime,
'Mid pleasures of this world Let ever, in truth's sacred cause
Thy banner be unfurled.
May all the graces which adorn
Great minds in thee excel; May't long be said of thee "he served
His generation well."
Thy emblem be yon evening star;
Aye steady in its light; Calm-peering o'er a world of change;
Ne'er stooping from its height.
When darkness deepens all around,
And rivals fill the field; Let faith and courage arm thy soul,
And form thy radiant shield.
Then, when thy golden hue of morn
Gives place to sober grey; And years which never-ending seem
Have fled like one short day.
Relying on that Mighty One
Who raised the starry frame; Who through life's changes, toils and tears,
Abideth still the same.
Thy feet shall out the swelling flood,
Step safe upon the strand; And mayhap then, a mother's love
Again shall clasp thy hand, And lead thee, 'yond thy shining star,
Into the deathless land.
RHYMES OF ANCIENT ROME.
HORATIUS.
B.C. 650.
A plan of fair devising when battle feuds were rife;
To save by lesser sacrifice, a needless waste of life.
Three brothers Curiatii, choice of the Alban band,
Against three brothers Horatii, Rome's proffered champions, stand;
Should Horatii assert their might, the Alban arms would yield,
If Curiatii, then should Rome to servile fate be sealed.
Well fought those manly combatants in sight of either host;
The struggle wavered long and keen, high hopes were rudely tossed;
But strength, upborne of courage, wanes before time's fatal throes,
The brave may strive yet striving fall, as fell those rival foes
Save one, who owed to strategy what prowess might not yield,
A Horatii stood conqueror on Alba's blood-stained field.
Rome is avowed the victor, the battle-sword is sheathed,
And round Horatius' youthful head gay triumph's crown is wreathed:
'Mid gratulations of the camp, 'mid cheerings of the throng
The hero who hath slain to save, is proudly borne along,
When Hark! beyond the joyous notes which stir the balmy air
Upwafteth to his ears the sad reproaches of despair.
"Oh! woe for my belovèd! My love who loved me so; Oh cruel hand! Oh evil fate! Which laid the mighty low.
"Oh brother! dearly hast thou earned Thy country's noblest boon; Thou'st quenched the lustre of my life Ere reached its bright, high noon.
"Thou comest laden rich with spoils, Thy valor to attest; One only trophy greets mine eye, His cloak upon thy breast.
"Go! list the plaudits of the crowd Whose liberties you save; One only voice thrills through my soul, That voice from out the grave.
"For thee shall golden goblets pour, And glorious rosebays twine; For me—my heart lies low with his Whose heart was wholly mine."
Oh maiden! for that prudence which looks beyond the hour;
Oh for that subtle wisdom which holds the key of power!
For calm and callous reasoning, which worketh out its plan,
Which checketh honest principle, and dupeth craft of man.
As in these nigher ages, so in those earlier days,
Keen wit, cool wisdom e'er dissolve beneath Love's fervent rays.
Is it fatigue of battle? why pales the warrior now?
Is it chagrin in triumph's hour which clouds that martial brow?
Both lend their aid, yet greater far than aught on earth beside,
The sore and bitter struggle 'twixt love and wounded pride;
'Twixt patriot-love and brother-love, the love of life's young day;
When sympathy of sisterhood charmed every grief away.
Horatius paused; out flashed the sword which drank her lover's blood;
He plunged it in his sister's heart, he slew her where she stood;
And, as he sheathed the reeking blade which struck the dastard blow,
"So perish every maid" he said "who wails a Roman foe!"
Oh cruel fate! Oh hapless twain! Oh tragic scenes of old!
Go! thank high Heaven these later times are cast in Christian mould.
[PYRRHUS.]
AFTER HIS DEFEAT OF THE ROMAN ARMY.
B.C. 280.
"If these were my soldiers," he said,
As he glanced o'er the gory field Where mingled the dying and dead
Of foemen who knew not to yield. "If these were my soldiers, with standard unfurled,
I should gather the reins of a vanquished world.
"Seven times did we charge on the foe;
As oft did we order retreat; Seven times, till the ebb and the flow
Brought the battle-tide under our feet. Yet, unto destruction their courage held fast,
Till destiny weighted the balance at last.
"A victor! yet mourning the lost!
The flower of my army, my pride, Who led in the conquering host
Lie mute as the serfs by their side. Oh! mothers of Epirus, what shall atone!
Must the victor ride back with his laurels—alone!
"Unmatched as to numbers we met;
Well mated in ardor we fought; Ah! never was victory yet
With bloodier sacrifice bought. Peace be to our dead 'neath Lucanian sods!
Let Valour high-niche them in shrine of the gods!
"But these! of Rome's valiant who fell;
Who flinched not, but met every blow With prowess no language may tell;
With face ever set to the foe. If these were my soldiers, with standard unfurled,
I should reign, the one king of a whole conquered world."
So is it in life's bitter warfare;
When hosts of wrong-doing assail, The bravest in spirit, the truest of soul
In heat of the battle oft fail. They lack in a leader, they parry each blow,
Yet fall in the conflict with face to the foe.
Legions of evil confronting
Firm-footed, position maintain; Look thou to thine able Commander!
The foeman shall muster in vain. In phalanx well marshaled, with standard unfurled,
Thou shalt combat and conquer a whole sinning world.
[MARIUS.]
SEATED ON THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.
B.C. 86.
What voiceth thy bright waters? Oh Sea of the summer clime!
Thou mirror of life's history! thou orator sublime!
What sing thy laughing wavelets as they dance along thy shore?
What moan thy heaving surges, as they sway with sullen roar?
Thou tellest to the breezes soft, which fan thy breast of pride,
That pomp and glory of a world once nestled by thy side;
Thou singest, in the purling wave, quaint rhythms of romance,
Of witching queens and warriors bold, of siege and glistering lance;
Thou wailest, in sad monotone, o'er empires gone for aye;
Thou smilest in benign repose upon this freer day.
Alone on the crumbling ruins! bowed low his agèd head;
Life's wreck 'mid shattered monuments, sole mourners o'er the dead;
Meet emblem of capricious fate, which scorns decrees of man;
Meet site for an exile's musing on Treachery's subtle plan.
Great city of the salt sea wave, on Afric's burnished shore!
That gleaming wave which wailed the dirge of those it proudly bore
To battle in a vain defense, to sleep the sleep profound
Within no sculptured sepulchre, beneath no hallowed ground.
Great Carthage the magnificent! when Slaughter rung thy knell,
Even from thy victor's war-strained eyes, unwonted tear-drops fell.
A fugitive sat Marius; despondent and alone;
Well-nigh forgot of enemies, forsaken of his own.
Where now that voice of terror, those eyes of flashing light
Which awed the Cymbrian jailor, which urged his coward flight?
Where now that haughty form and mien which led the Roman bands
To smite Europa's barbarous hordes back from the classic lands?
Mute are the plaudits of the crowd, seared are the harvest sheaves;
Quenched the chimera light of flame, which gilt the laurel leaves;
Had vanished, as a taunting sprite, those dreams ambition nursed;
The very stones on which he sat were of the gods accursed.
Which is the happier? he who strives the higher heights to gain,
Or he who mingles in the crowd that throngs the nether plain?
Ask ye Ambition's tortured brain if vulgar hue and cry
The craving of the loftier mood doth fully satisfy:
Ask of keen Avarice if its hoard e'er soothed a sin-fraught breast,
Or purchased peace of mind, or charmed a conscience into rest.
I wot 'tis safer far to bide in calm contentment's vale,
And o'er the placid inland seas to peaceful moorings sail.
Even those whose largess, honest worth doth merit just renown
What are they save the shining mark for Envy to uncrown.
Doth muse Oh Marius! on that hour when blasts of martial horn
Across thy peasant heritage through haunts of toil were borne?
When thy young heart throbbed high to join that glittering array,
Which owned thee chief in valor's van through many an after day.
Dost storm Numantia's battlements, whence arrows showered as rain?
Dost stand in thickest of the fight on crimsoned fields of Spain?
Or sittest thou an honored guest, where flows the festive tide?
Thy plebeian birth no barrier, by Africanus' side?
Dost list that certain prophecy that should his race be run,
The mantle of his might should fall on thee, great Valor's son?
Raise up thy head, Oh Marius! look forth ayond the wave!
Yield not to dire despondency; ills conquer not the brave;
Think of thy former exile, then of that glorious hour
When suffrage of the multitude invested thee with power:
When Rome's patricians bent the knee around thy self-built throne,
And all the wills of every land succumbed unto thine own:
Though Envy forged the coward chains which dragged thy scepter down,
It may not wrest from memory thy record of renown;
Arise! reward of courage waits, the dismal night is o'er;
That sun is dawning which will flush thy Civic crown once more.
[BRUTUS.]
THE LAST CAMPAIGN.
B.C. 42.
The warrior doffed his heavy helm,
Unclasped the sheath from off his breast; He turned aside from sword and lance,
Yet sought no couch of needful rest.
His soul was filled with new, strange dread,
Since haunting ghosts of evil done Uprose, and banished from his mind
All war plans for the rising sun.
Again the blazing holocaust
Of patriot Xanthus greets his eyes; Again before his ruthless hand
The plundered Lycian peasant flies.
Once more within the Senate House
He lists those accents, full and clear, Which plead the sacred rights of Rome;—
Brave warrior! statesman without peer!
He sees the quivering sunbeams play
Upon the sandal's burnished gold; And light the gorgeous Tyrian dyes
Which deck that form of princely mould,
Then stream o'er proud, patrician crest
Down to the swaying mass below; Whose wills imbibe the speaker's will,
As well aimed darts from high strung bow.
Ingrate, he joins the dastard few
That round the mighty Cæsar stand, And stains his weapon to the hilt
With noblest blood in Roman land.
He hears the astonished "Brutus, thou!"
He marks the sad, reproachful eye, Ere, wrapped within the toga folds,
The lofty head bows down to die.
No war blast wakes a sleeping world;
Deep silence broodeth o'er the camp; Still, careless as to wanted rest
Sits Brutus by the flickering lamp.
Is it a phantom, that giant form,
Or spirit to human shape lent, Which glideth, with never a warning,
From shadow land into the tent?
Of stature majestic; erect;
Terrific of feature, stern-eyed; No token, save only a look;
Such look as all welcome defied.
"Thy name," said the awe struck warrior
"Thy name and thy purpose unfold?" His tones wore the mask of fortitude,
But the stream from his heart ran cold.
"My name"—and the dark scowl deepened
As the lips of the mystic unsealed; "My name is—thy genius of evil;—
We shall meet on Philippi's red field!"
Hushed were the dire, prophetic tones;
The vision vanished as it came; But, from that hour in Brutus' soul
Was crushed Ambition's furious flame.
No more he dreamt to enter Rome
In laurel-wreathed triumphal car; With captive monarchs in his train,
With spoils and trophies from afar.
Nor e'er to quaff the festive bowl
'Neath purple canopy of state; Whilst bard and sage his feats rehearse,
And martial throngs his bidding wait.
Ah, Cæsar! thou wert well avenged,
When on its lowly, greenwood bed, Defeated valour stooped to swell
The army of ignoble dead.
Though on those ancient battle-fields,
Sapped with the blood of myriad slain, The suns of centuries have smiled,
And reapers gathered golden grain.
Though pomp and power of ancient Rome
With Roman idols passed away, The thirst of power, and greed of gain
Live on to mar this later day.
Still boastful arrogance excels,
And moneyed ignorance soareth high; Still fashion rules the world of sham;
Still man for man in strife must die.
Yet, sure as rills from mountain source
Through varied channels seaward run; So surely ill will track the course
Of him that hath the evil done.
And conscience seared, lethargic-souled,
Who deal in evil to the last Must realize, beyond the bourne,
Deservèd doom, and mercy past.
[MARCUS CURTIUS.]
A LEGEND.
Still, in these balmier days of Rome,
The mother tells her child That once, within the Forum, oped
A chasm deep and wild.
That every heart, with horror chilled,
Unto the altar hied; Soothsayers, augurs sought the cause,
Yet answer was denied.
At length an agèd seer proclaimed,
"The gods will vengeance wreak, Till choicest gift, cast in the gulf,
Doth penitence bespeak."
The mother shuddering, clasps her babe
More closely to her breast; The warrior who ne'er feared a foe
Bends low his mailèd crest.
The heartless miser hugs his gold;
Affection claims its own; Yet, mystery beyond all ken,
Such gifts might ill atone.
'Neath blackened sky the wind moans on,
Wide yawns the dark abyss;— Oh Heavens! was ever sore suspense
Or terror like to this!
What star descendeth through the gloom
To rift dark sorrow's night? Is't hero from the battle field,
Or monarch girt with might?
Up rides young Marcus Curtius
Upon his milk white steed; No word, but waving of the hand,
As he dashes on with speed.
Unto the dreary chasm's mouth;—
The frighted charger springs, He rears, he snorts, and foamy flakes
O'er Curtius' armor flings.
Fair picture for all spheres and times!
Upon death's borderland, One gleam of sunshine for his crown,
See Rome's self martyr stand!
He gently soothed his noble horse;
Then, as from silver bell, Upon the wondering multitude,
His calm, clear accents fell.
"Romans!" he said, "not arms, not wealth
Heaven claims of you this day; Nor gifts of wisdom, love or lore,
Howe'er so precious they.
"Hear me, Oh citizens of Rome!
This lesson richly prize; Best gift and parent of good deeds
Is true self-sacrifice.
"I offer to the immortal gods,
Who hark my solemn vow, That life which for my country lived;
Which dieth for it now."
He backed his steed; threw down his casque
Gazed on the Sacred Height; Then—forward to the vast abyss
As soldier to the fight.
With right hand raised above his head,
His sword within its sheath, He urges on the maddened steed
Which bears him to his death.
One moment, and with mighty bound,
He plunges to repose; One dull, sad sound; but one, and then—
The yawning gulf doth close.
CRAWFURD CASTLE.
[CRAWFURD CASTLE.]
I.
'Yond many a crimsoned thorn-hedge
In that sweet English vale Where violet, pink and eglantine
Waft incense on the gale.
Where from the wayside hillocks smile
Gay groups of golden-rod; And 'neath the shade of branching elm,
The lithe-limbed bluebells nod.
Beneath that lofty, grey stone arch;
Beneath that sculptured crest; Betwixt those pillars huge, whereon
Heraldic lions rest.
Up through green woods of storied fame;
Where squire with hawk and hound, And monarch with his glittering train
Had sought a hunting ground.
Unto that gently rising slope;
There Crawfurd Castle stands, With lordship, far as eye can reach,
O'er all the County lands.
But why, in its kingly grandeur
Of terrace, arch and tower, Stands that fair structure mute and lone
As hermit in his bower?
Anear the Gothic window, through which the orient beams
Fell in subduèd radiance o'er young life's happy dreams,
Sat one whose noble form and mien, firm step and shapely hand
Proclaimed him born with either right, to serve or to command.
This day was of his happy life, the happiest, brightest far,
For a blissful calm had fallen on a bitter family jar;
The Earl had yielded; on the morn his loved and only son
With full consent would wed with her whose heart had long been won.
She was no child of fortune the lady of his choice;
A lovely face, a faultless form, a clear and kindly voice
Were hers, with wealth of tenderness, and heart of honest love,
Which prized him for his own true worth all other claims above.
She was no peeress of the realm; no high born titled dame,
To lead the dance in glittering halls where myriad jewels flame;
To circle in the slippery round of fashion's giddy throng;
To charm the audience with a sound whence dwells no soul of song.
Yet, brighter to her lover's eyes those coils of golden hair
Than coronet of strawberry leaves, o'ertopped with pearlets rare;
And dearer to her lover's heart those accents sweet and low
Than choicest melody of art, or studied music's flow.
So Viscount Edwin sat and dreamed bright dreams of after hours
When the curate's winsome daughter should reign at Crawfurd towers;
And a new, sweet peace stole o'er him as he thought of all the scorn
With which the Earl had spoken of the maiden lowly born.
How he had pointed to their sires, and reasoned of disgrace,
While bitter disappointment had paled his noble face;
Then how, relenting for the sake of her long since in heaven,
He'd ta'en his boy unto his heart, and seeming wrong forgiven.
Then o'er the dreamer's youthful face there stooped a passing cloud;
But an angel voice made whisper beyond the satin shroud,
As a gentle hand pressed tenderly upon the smooth, white brow,
"I loved thee, Oh my little one!—I love and bless thee now."
II.
Oh! saddest note in saddening song!
The fair, unwedded bride With reason fled, might oft be seen
Near by the river side.
Now plaiting wreaths of sweet, wild flowers
To rhythms light and gay; Now listening for the manly step
She hailed in former day.
Till the Father, in His mercy,
Sent an angel from above To tend her guileless spirit up
Into the haven of love. Earl Crawfurd, crushed with shame and woe
Bent low his stately head; And, ere the forest leaves were strewn,
He slumbered with his dead.
His mansion, with ancestral lands,
Rich farms and pastures fair; A vast and goodly heritage,
Passed to a distant heir.
So now, in its kingly grandeur
Of terrace, arch and tower, Stands Crawfurd Castle, mute and lone
As hermit in his bower.
SONGS OF SCOTIA.
