No echo in thy children's hearts awake; When, pealing softly with a pensive chime, Or deep-ton'd cadence o'er the hills and dales, Cities and towns, and hamlets far away,— It bids us feel what Luther's genius won; Who pluck'd our sabbaths out of papal mire, And gave to myriads God's own day of rest. R. MONTGOMERY.
By Thrasimene's lake1, in the defiles Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles Come back before me, as his skill beguiles The host between the mountains and the shore, Where Courage falls in her despairing files, And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore, Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter'd o'er,
Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds; And such the storm of battle on this day, And such the phrensy, whose convulsion blinds To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray 2 An earthquake reel'd unheededly away! None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, And yawning forth a grave for those who lay Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet;
Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet!
So great was their mutual animosity, that the earthquake which overthrew many of the cities of Italy, was not (writes Livy) felt by one of the combatants.
The Earth to them was as a rolling bark Which bore them to Eternity; they saw The Ocean round, but had no time to mark The motions of their vessel; Nature's law, In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds
Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds
Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no words.
For other scene is Thrasimene now; Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough; Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain Lay where their roots are, but a brook hath ta'en— A little rill of scanty stream and bed
A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain ; And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead
Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling waters red,
Oh! gloriously upon the deep The gallant vessel rides ; And she is mistress of the deep, And mistress of the tides.
And never but for her tall ships * Had England been so proud;
Or before the might of the Island Queen The kings of the earth had bow'd,
But, alas! for the widow and orphan's tear, When the death-flag sweeps the wave; Alas! that the laurel of victory
Must grow but upon the grave!
AN aged widow with one only child, And even he was far away at sea:
Narrow and mean the street wherein she dwelt, And low and small the room; but still it had A look of comfort; on the white-washed walls Were rang'd her many ocean-treasures shells, Some like the snow, and some pink, with a blush Caught from the sunset on the waters; plumes From the bright pinions of the Indian birds; Long dark sea-weeds, and black and crimson berries,
Were treasur'd with the treasuring of the heart. Her sailor brought them, when from his first
He came so sunburnt and so tall, she scarce Knew her fair stripling in that manly youth, Like a memorial of far better days,
The large old Bible, with its silver clasps, Lay on the table; and a fragrant air
Came from the window: there stood a rose-tree- Lonely, but of luxuriant growth, and rich
With thousand buds and beautifully blown flowers: It was a slip from that which grew beside The cottage, once her own, which ever drew Praise from each passer down the shadowy lane Where her home stood - the home where yet she thought
To end her days in peace: that was the hope That made life pleasant, and it had been fed
By the so ardent spirits of her boy,
Who said that God would bless the effort made For his old mother. Like a holiday
Each Sunday came, for then her patient way
She took to the white church of her own village, A long five miles; and many marvell❜d, one So aged, so feeble, still should seek that church. They knew not how delicious the fresh air, How fair the green leaves and the fields, how glad The sunshine of the country, to the eyes That look'd so seldom on them. She would sit Long after service on a grave, and watch
The cattle as they graz'd, the yellow corn,
The lane where yet her home might be; and then
Return with lighten'd heart to her dull street, Refresh'd with hope and pleasant memories, Listen with anxious ear to the conch shell, Wherein they say the rolling of the sea
Is heard distinct, pray for her absent child, Bless him, then dream of him. . .
A shout awoke the sleeping town, -the night Rang with the fleet's return and victory! Men that were slumbering quietly rose up And join'd the shout: the windows gleam'd with lights,
The bells rang forth rejoicingly, the paths
Were fill'd with people: even the lone street,
Where the poor widow dwelt, was rous'd, and
Was thought upon no more that night. Next day
A bright and sunny day it was high flags Wav'd from each steeple, and green boughs were hung
In the gay market-place; music was heard, Bands that struck up in triumph; and the sea Was cover'd with proud vessels; and the boats Went to and fro the shore, and waving hands Beckon'd from crowded decks to the glad strand Where the wife waited for her husband, maids
Threw the bright curls back from thei glistening
And look'd their best, and as the splashing oar Brought dear ones to the land, how every voice Grew musical with happiness! And there Stood that old widow woman with the rest, Watching the ship wherein had sail'd her son. A boat came from that vessel, heavily It toil'd upon the waters, and the oars Were dipp'd in slowly. As it near'd the beach, A moaning sound came from it, and a groan Burst from the lips of all the anxious there, When they look'd on each ghastly countenance; For that lone boat was fill'd with wounded men, Bearing them to the hospital, and then That aged woman saw her son. She pray'd,
And gain'd her prayer, that she might be his
And take him home. He liv'd for many days. It sooth'd him so to hear his mother's voice, To breathe the fragrant air sent from the roses The roses that were gather'd one by one For him by his fond parent nurse; the last Was plac'd upon his pillow, and that night, That very night, he died! And he was laid In the same church-yard where his father lay, Through which his mother as a bride had pass'd. The grave was clos'd; but still the widow sat Upon a sod beside, and silently
(Hers was not grief that words had comfort for) The funeral train pass'd on, and she was left Alone amid the tombs; but once she look'd Towards the shadowy lane, then turn'd again, As desolate and sick at heart, to where
Her help, her hope, her child, lay dead together! She went home to her lonely room. Next morn
Some enter'd it, and there she sat,
Her white hair hanging o'er the wither'd hands
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