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MILTOX.

FROM

THE MAN OF ROSS.

Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,

To peace and truth thy glorious way hast MORAL ESSAYS,"

ploughed ; [Mr. John Kyrle. He died in the year 1724, aged 90, and lies And on the neck of crownéd fortune proud interred in the chancel of the church of Ross in Herefordshire.)

Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pur. But all our praises why should lords engross ? sued, Rise, honest muse ! and sing the Man of Ross;

While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imPleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,

brued, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much rebrow ?

mains From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?

To conquer still ; Peace hath her victories Not to the skies in useless columns tost,

No less renowned than War: new foes arise, Or in proud falls magnificently lost,

Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains: But clear and artless, pouring through the plain Help us to save free conscience from the paw Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.

Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows ? Whose seats the weary traveller repose ? Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise ?

• The Man of Ross!" each lisping babe replies. Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread !

THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.
The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread ;

CHILDE HAROLD."
He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate :

HARK ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, Him portioned maids, apprenticed orphans

A long, low, distant murmur of dread sound, blest,

Such as arises when a nation bleeds The young who labor, and the old who rest.

With some deep and immedicable wound; Is any sick ? the Man of Ross relieves,

Through storm and darkness yawns the rendPrescribes, attends, the medicine makes and gives. ing ground, Is there a variance ? enter but his door,

The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief Balked are the courts, and contest is no more.

Seems royal still, though with her head disDespairing quacks with curses fled the place,

crowned, And vile attorneys, now a useless race.

And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief B. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue

She clasps a babe to whom her breast yields no What all so wish, but want the power to do!

relief. () say, what sums that generous hand supply? What mines to swell that boundless charity ? Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ?

P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? This man possessed five hundred pounds a year.

Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Blush, grandeur, blush ; proud courts, withdraw Some less majestic, less beloved head ?

In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, Ye little stars, hide your diminished rays !

The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, B. And what? no monument, inscription, stone? Death hushed that pang forever : with thee fled His race, his form, his name, almost unknown? The present happiness and promised joy P. Who builds a church to God, and not to Which filled the imperial isles so full it seemed fame,

to cloy. Will never mark the marble with his name : Go, search it there, where to be born and die, Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, Of rich and poor makes all the history ;

O thou that wert so happy, so adored ! Enough that virtue filled the space between, Those who weep not for kings shall weep for Proved by the ends of being to have been.

thee, And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to

hoard

Her many griefs for ONE: for she had poured TO THE LORD-GENERAL CROMWELL. Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head

Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord, CROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a cloud, And desolate consort, — vainly wert thou wed !

Not of war only, but detractions rude, The husband of a year ! the father of the dead !

your blaze !

ALEXANDER POPE.

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; | And, what 's still stranger, left behind a name Thy brillal's fruit is ashes ; in the dust

For which men vainly decimate the throng, The fair-haired Daughter of the Isles is laid, Not only famous, but of that good fame, The love of millions ! How we did intrust Without which glory 's but a tavern song, Futurity to her ! and, though it must Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame, Darken above her bones, yet fondly deemed Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with Our children should obey her child, and blessed wrong ; Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise An active hermit, even in age the child seemed

Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild. Like stars to shepherds' eyes : 't was but a meteor beamed.

'T is true he shrank from men, even of his nation,

When they built up unto his darling trees, Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well : He moved some hundred miles off, for a station The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue

Where there were fewer houses and more ease ; Of hollow counsel, the false oracle,

The inconvenience of civilization Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung

Is that you neither can be pleased nor please ; Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung

But where he met the individual man,
Nations have armed in madness, the strange fate He showed himself as kind as mortal can.
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath
flung

He was not all alone ; around him grew
Against their blind omnipotence a weight

A sylvan tribe of children of the chase, Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon

Whose young, unwakened world was ever new : or late,

Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace

On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view These might have been her destiny ; but no,

A frown on nature's or on human face ;Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair,

The freeborn forest found and kept them free, Good without effort, great without a foe;

And fresh as is a torrent or a tree.
But nowa bride and mother, --and now there!
How many ties did that stern moment tear !

And tall, and strong, and swift of foot, were they, From thy sire's to his humblest subject's breast

Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions, Is linked the electric chain of that despair,

Because their thoughts had never been the prey Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and op

Of care or gain : the green woods were their

portions ; prest The land which loved thee so that none could No sinking spirits told them they grew gray ; love thee best.

No fashion made them apes of her distortions ; Simple they were, not savage ; and their rifles, Though very true, were not yet used for trifles.

BYRON.

FROM

BYRON

Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers, DANIEL BOONE.

And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil ; DON JUAN."

Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers ;

Corruption could not make their hearts her soil. Of all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer, The lust which stings, the splendor which enWho passes for in life and death most lucky,

cumbers, Of the great names which in our faces stare, With the free foresters divide no spoil ;

The General Boone, backwoodsman of Kentucky, Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes
Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere ;

Of this unsighing people of the woods.
For, killing nothing but a bear or buck, he
Enjoyed the lonely, vigorous, harmless days
Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze.

NAPOLEON.
Crime came not near him, she is not the child

Of solitude ; Health shrank not from him, for 'Tis done, - but yesterday a king !
Her home is in the rarely trodden wild,

And armed with kings to strive,
Where if men seek her not, and death be more And now thou art a nameless thing;
Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled So abject, - yet alive!
By habit to what their own hearts abhor,

Is this the man of thousand thrones,
In cities caged. The present case in point I

Who strewed our earth with hostile bones, Cite is, that Boone lived hunting up to ninety ;

And can he thus survive ?

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Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,

From hope and heaven ?

How bears her breast the torturing hour ?

Still clings she to thy side ? Must she, too, bend, must she, too, share Thy late repentance, long despair,

Thou throneless homicide ? If still she loves thee, hoard that gem; 'T is worth thy vanished diadem !

Let not the land, once proud of him,

Insult him now; Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,

Dishonored brow.

But let its humbled sons, instead,

From sea to lake,
A long lament, as for the dead,

In sadness make.

Of all we loved and honored, naught

Save power remains,
A fallen angel's pride of thought,

Still strong in chains.

All else is gone ; from those great eyes

The soul has fled : When faith is lost, when honor dies,

The man is dead !

But one,

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,

And gaze upon the sea ;
That clement may meet thy smile,

It ne'er was ruled by thee!
Or trace with thine all-idle hand,
In loitering mood, upon the sand,

That earth is now as free !
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now
Transferred his byword to thy brow.
Thou Timour ! his captive's cage,

What thoughts will there be thine,
While brooding in thy prisoned rage ?

“ The world was mine!" Unless, like he of Babylon, All sense is with thy sceptre gone,

Life will not long contine
That spirit poured so widely forth, –
So long obeyed, so little worth!
Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,

Wilt thou withstand the shock ?
And share with him, the unforgiven,

His vulture and his rock! Foredoomed by God, by man accurst, And that last act, thougn not thy worst,

The very fiend's arch mock : He in his fall preserved his pride, And, if a mortal, had as proudly died !

Then pay the reverence of old days

To his dead fame ;
Walk backward, with averted gaze,
And hide the shame !

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

THE DEAD CZAR NICHOLAS. LAY him beneath his snows, The great Norse giant who in these last days Troubled the nations. Gather decently The imperial robes about him. 'T is but man, This demi-god. Or rather it was man, And is -- a little dust, that will corrupt As fast as any nameless dust which sleeps 'Neath Alma's grass or Balaklava's vines. No vineyard grave for him. No quiet tomb By river margin, where across the seas Children's fond thoughts and women's memories

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come

So fallen ! so lost! the light withdrawn

Which once he wore !
The glory from his gray hairs gone

Forevermore!

Like angels, to sit by the sepulchre,
Saying : “All these were men who knew to count,
Front-faced, the cost of honor, nor did shrink
From its full payment ; coming here to die,
They died — like men.

Revile him not,

the Tempter hath A snare for all ! And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,

Befit his fall!

0, dumb be passion's stormy rage,

When he who might
Have lighted up and led his age

Falls back in night !

But this man ? Ah ! for him Funereal state, and ceremonial grand, The stone-engraved sarcophagus, and then Oblivion.

Nay, oblivion were as bliss To that fierce howl which rolls from land to land Exulting, — “Art thou fallen, Lucifer, Son of the morning ?" or condemning, –

Scorn! would the angels laugh to mark

A bright soul driven,

" Thus

Perish the wicked!" or blaspheming, “Here | Forgive me, if from present things I turn
Lies our Belshazzar, our Sennacherib,

To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, Our Pharaoh, - he whose heart God hardened, And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn, So that he would not let the people go.”

Nature they say, doth dote,

And cannot make a man Self-glorifying sinners! Why, this man

Save on some worn-out plan, Was but like other men :- you, Levite small,

Repeating us by rote : Who shut your saintly ears, and prate of hell For him her Old World moulds aside she threw, And heretics, because outside church-doors,

And, choosing sweet clay from the breast Your church-doors, congregations poor and small Of the unexhausted West, Praise Heaven in their own way ; — you, autocrat With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, Of all the hamlets, who add field to field

Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. And house to house, whose slavish children cower

How beautiful to see
Before your tyrant footstep ; - you, foul-tongued Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed,
Fanatic or ambitious egotist,

Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead ; Who thinks God stoops from his high majesty One whose mcek flock the people joyed to be, To lay his finger on your puny head,

Not lured by any cheat of birth, And crown it, that you henceforth may parade

But by his clear-grained human worth, Your maggotship throughout the wondering And brave old wisdom of sincerity! world,

They knew that outward grace is dust; “I am the Lord's anointed !"

They could not choose but trust

Fools and blind : In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, This Czar, this emperor, this disthronéd corpse,

And supple-tempered will Lying so straightly in an icy calm

That bent like perfect steel to spring again and Grander than sovereignty, was but as ye,

thrust. No better and no worse ;

Heaven mend us all !

His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind,

Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, Carry him forth and bury him. Death's peace A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind; Rest on his memory! Mercy by his bier

Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, Sits silent, or says only these few words,

Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, “ Let him who is without sin ’mongst ye all Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars. Cast the first stone."

Nothing of Europe here,
Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still,

Ere any names of Serf and Peer

Could Nature's equal scheme deface ;
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

Here was a type of the true elder race,

And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face COMMEMORATION ODE."

to face.

I praise him not; it were too late ; LIFE may be given in many ways,

And some innative weakness there must be And loyalty to Truth be sealed

In him who condescends to victory As bravely in the closet as the field,

Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait,
So bountiful is Fate ;

Safe in himself as in a fate.
But then to stand beside her,

So always firmly he :
When craven churls deride her,

He knew to bide his time,
To front a lie in arms and not to yield,

And can his fame abide,
This shows, methinks, God's plan

Still patient in his simple faith sublime,
And measure of a stalwart man,

Till the wise years decide.
Limbed like the old heroic breeds,

Great captains, with their guns and drums, Who stand self-poised on manhood's solid

Disturb our judgment for the hour, earth,

But at last silence comes; Not forced to frame excuses for his birth,

These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, Fed from within with all the strength he needs.

Our children shall behold his fame,

The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, Such was he, our Martyr-Chief,

Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, Whoin late the Nation he had led,

New birth of our new soil, the first American. With ashes on her head, Wept with the passion of an angry grief :

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

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