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.