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"Bring another cup, and straightway to the "O, my Balder! have I, have I found theenoble Persian give: Balder, beautiful as Summer morn? Drink, I said before, and perish-now I bid O, my Sun-god! hearts of heroes crowned thee drink and live!"

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.

thee

For their king; they lost, but now have found thee;

Gods and men shall not be left forlorn.

BALDER.

BALDER, the white Sun-god, has departed!
Beautiful as Summer dawn was he;
Loved of gods and men—the royal-hearted
Balder, the white Sun-god, has departed-
Has gone home where all the brave ones be.

For the tears of the imperial mother,

"Balder! brother! the Divine has vanished-
The eternal splendors all have fled;
Truth and Love and Nobleness are banished
The Heroic and Divine have vanished;
Nature has no god, and Earth lies dead.

"Come thou back, my Balder-king and brother!

Teach the hearts of men to love the gods! Come thou back, and comfort our great mother

For a universe that weeps and prays, Rides Hermoder forth to seek his brotherRides for love of that distressful mother, Through lead-colored glens and cross-blue Come with truth and bravery, Balder, bro

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There he found the ancient portress stand-Oh, the trueness of this ancient story!

ing

Vexer of the mind and of the heart: "Balder came this way," to his demanding Cried aloud that ancient portress, standing"Balder came, but Balder did depart;

Even now it is, as it was then.
Earth hath lost a portion of her glory,
And like Balder, in the ancient story,
Never comes the Beautiful again.

"Here he could not dwell. He is down yon-Still the young Hermoder journeys bravely,

der

Northward, further, in the death-realm he."

Rode Hermoder on in silent wonder

Through lead-colored glens and cross-blue

ways;

Still he calls his brother, pleading gravely

Mane of Gold fled fast and rushed down yon- Still to the death-kingdom ventures bravely— der!

Brave and good must young Hermoder be.

For he leaps sheer over Hela's portal,
Drops into the huge abyss below.
There he saw the beautiful immortal-
Saw him, Balder, under Hela's portal-

Saw him, and forgot his pain and woe.

Calmly to the eternal Terror prays.

But the Fates relent not; strong Endeavor,
Courage, noble Feeling, are in vain;
For the Beautiful has gone for ever.
Vain are Courage, Genius, strong Endeavor-
Never comes the Beautiful again.

ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY AT BELZONI'S EXHIBITION.

Do you think I counsel weak despairing?

No! like young Hermoder I would ride;
With an humble, yet a gallant daring,
I would leap unquailing, undespairing,
Over the huge precipice's side.

Dead and gone is the old world's Ideal,
The old arts and old religion fled;
But I gladly live amid the Real,
And I seek a worthier Ideal.
Courage, brothers, God is overhead!

ANONYMOUS.

ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY AT BEL-
ZONI'S EXHIBITION.

AND thou hast walked about, (how strange a
story!)

In Thebes' streets three thousand years ago, When the Memnomium was in all its glory, And Time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous.

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy;

Thou hast a tongue-come-let us hear its tune;

589

Perhaps thou wert a Priest-if so, my strug

gles

Are vain, for Priestcraft never owns its juggles.

Perhaps that very hand, now pinioned flat,
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to
glass;

Or dropped a half-penny in Homer's hat;
Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass;
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch at the great Temple's dedication.

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled;

For thou wert dead, and buried, and em-
balmed,

Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled:
Antiquity appears to have begun
Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou could'st develop-if that withered tongue

Might tell us what those sightless orbs have

seen

How the world looked when it was fresh and

young,

And the great Deluge still had left it green;

Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, Or was it then so old that History's pages

Mummy!

Revisiting the glimpses of the moon

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied crea

tures,

Contained no record of its early ages?

Still silent! incommunicative elf!

Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows;

But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and But prythee tell us something of thyself

features.

Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house; Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's What hast thou seen-what strange adven

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In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise While not a fragment of thy flesh has crum

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VERSES

ABOU BEN ADHEM.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ.

I AM monarch of all I survey—

My right there is none to dispute; From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O Solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach;

I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speechI start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestowed upon man! O, had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truthMight learn from the wisdom of age,

And be cheered by the sallies of youth.

Religion! What treasure untold

Resides in that heavenly word!— More precious than silver and gold,

Or all that this earth can afford; But the sound of the church-going bell These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sighed at the sound of a knell,

Or smiled when a sabbath appeared.

Ye winds that have inade me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore

Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more! My friends-do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me?

O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind!

Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place,
And mercy-encouraging thought!-
Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

WILLIAM COWPER.

ABOU BEN ADHEM.

591

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?"-The vision raised its
head,

And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou; "Nay, not so,"

Replied the angel.-Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God

had blessed

And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!

LEIGH HUNT.

THE STEAMBOAT.

SEE how yon flaming herald treads
The ridged and rolling waves,
As, crashing o'er their crested heads,
She bows her surly slaves!
With foam before and fire behind,

She rends the clinging sea,
That flies before the roaring wind,

Beneath her hissing lee.

The morning spray, like sea-born flowers
With heaped and glistening bells,

Falls round her fast in ringing showers,
With every wave that swells;
And, flaming o'er the midnight deep,

In lurid fringes thrown,
The living gems of ocean sweep
Along her flashing zone.

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel,

And smoking torch on high,
When winds are loud, and billows reel,
She thunders, foaming, by!
When seas are silent and serene

With even beam she glides,

The sunshine glimmering through the green That skirts her gleaming sides.

Now, like a wild nymph, far apart
She veils her shadowy form,

The beating of her restless heart

Still sounding through the storm; Now answers, like a courtly dame,

The reddening surges o'er, With flying scarf of spangled flame,

The pharos of the shore.

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep,

Who trims his narrowed sail;
To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep

Her broad breast to the gale;

And many a foresail, scooped and strained, Shall break from yard and stay, Before this smoky wreath hath stained The rising mist of day.

Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud,
I see yon quivering mast―

The black throat of the hunted cloud
Is panting forth the blast!

An hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff,

The giant surge shall fling His tresses o'er yon pennon-staff,

White as the sea-bird's wing!

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep! Nor wind nor wave shall tire Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap With floods of living fire;

Sleep on-and when the morning light
Streams o'er the shining bay,

O, think of those for whom the night
Shall never wake in day!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands: The smith—a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat-
He earns whate'er he can;
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow-
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children, coming home from school, Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks, that fly Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys;

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