The precious purchase of ten thousand years,
The slow-won gains hard held at awful cost
Of toil and thought and grief and blood and tears—
Shall these be stolen from the world, and lost?
These to retain, must force, perforce, alas,
Lift up her banners and her thunders hurl:
Then, when the reign of cruelty shall pass,
Dare Charity her fighting ensign furl.
Where rings no song for freedom, none are free;
Where gleams no sword for justice, justice dies;
Where gates of hell prevail, then must it be
The Powers of Darkness storm the very skies.
The Prince of Gentleness, did He not bring
A brand, lest violence on earth prevail?
He preached, He prayed. And poets needs must sing
War against wrong, or Christ himself must fail.
JAMES E. MURDOCH.
On His Eightieth Birthday.
FOUR-score! That gallant stripling? No!
That passion-breathing Romeo,
Who climbed, last night, the garden wall,
Mocked by Mercutio’s madcap call!
Four-score? What, he? Charles Surface? Nay;
He is as young as blooming May;
You do but jest; I know him well—
Who can forget wild Mirabel?
Whatever the costume, forsooth,
The same inimitable youth!
Marked you the sables Hamlet wore,
Dark-plumed, in moonlit Elsinore?
Gray locks? Believe the joke who can!
They “make him up” to play “old man”;
Pluck off the wig! Crow’s feet erase!
And recognize wag Murdoch’s face!
Nay;—sober Time his card holds high,
And, swearing figures will not lie,
Adds up the years and proves the date:
See, in the ten’s place, here, an eight.