Chapter 26

Press bravely on! and reach the goal, And gain the prize, and wear the crown; Faint not! for to the steadfast soul Come wealth, and honor, and renown. To thine own self be true, and keep Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil; Press on! and thou shalt surely reap A heavenly harvest for thy toil. P. Benjamin.

CLXXX.

KINDNESS.

The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter Have their own season. 'T is a little thing To give a cup of water; yet its draught Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips, May give a shock of pleasure to the frame More exquisite than when sectarian juice renews the life of joy in happiest hours. It is a little thing to speak a phrase Of common comfort which by daily use Has almost lost its sense; yet on the ear Of him who thought to die unmourned 't will fall Like choicest music; fill the glazing eye With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand To know the bonds of fellowship again; And shed on the departing soul a sense More precious than the benison of friends About the honored death-bed of the rich, To him who else were lonely, that another Of the great family is near and feels. Sergeant Talfourd.

CLXXXI.

HOW'S MY BOY?

Ho, sailor of the sea! How 's my boy--my boy? "What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sailed he?"

My boy John-- He that went to sea-- What care I for the ship, sailor? My boy's my boy to me.

You come back from sea And not know my John? I might as well have asked some landsman Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish But he knows my John. How's my boy--my boy?

And unless you let me know I'll swear you are no sailor, Blue jacket or no, Brass button or no, sailor, Anchor or crown or no! Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton-- "Speak low, woman, speak low!"

And why should I speak low, sailor? About my own boy John? If I was loud as I am proud I'll sing him over the town! Why should I speak low, sailor?-- "That good ship went down."

How 's my boy--my boy? What care I for the ship, sailor, I never was aboard her. Be she afloat, or be she aground, Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound, Her owners can afford her! I say how's my John?-- "Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her."

How's my boy--my boy? What care I for the men, sailor? I'm not their mother-- How's my boy--my boy? Tell me of him and no other! How's my boy--my boy? S. Dobell.

CLXXXII.

EXCELSIOR.

The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, "Excelsior!"

His brow was sad; his eye beneath, Flashed like a falchion from its sheath; And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue! "Excelsior!"

In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright: Above, the spectral glaciers shone; And from his lips escaped a groan, "Excelsior!"

"Try not the pass!" the old man said; "Dark lowers the tempest overhead. The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud that clarion voice replied, "Excelsior!"

"O, stay," the maiden said, "and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!"-- A tear stood in his bright blue eye; But still he answered with a sigh, "Excelsior!"

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche!" This was the peasant's last good night;-- A voice replied, far up the height, "Excelsior!"

At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered their oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air, "Excelsior!"

A traveller,--by the faithful hound, Half buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, "Excelsior!"

There, in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless but beautiful he lay; And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star,-- "Excelsior!" H. W. Longfellow.

CLXXXIII.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!" For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us further than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting; And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,--act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;--

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. H. W. Longfellow.

CLXXXIV.

THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP.

All is finished, and at length Has come the bridal day Of beauty and of strength. To-day the vessel shall be launched! With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, And o'er the bay, Slowly, in all his splendors dight, The great sun rises to behold the sight.

The ocean old, Centuries old, Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, Paces restless to and fro, Up and down the sands of gold. His beating heart is not at rest; And far and wide With ceaseless flow His beard of snow Heaves with the heaving of his breast.

He waits impatient for his bride. There she stands, With her foot upon the sands, Decked with flags and streamers gay, In honor of her marriage-day, Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, Round her like a veil descending, Ready to be The bride of the gray old sea.

Then the Master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand; And at the word, Loud and sudden there was heard, All around them and below, The sound of hammers, blow on blow, knocking away the shores and spurs. And see! she stirs! She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms.

And lo! from the assembled crowd There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, That to the ocean seemed to say, "Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray; Take her to thy protecting arms, With all her youth and all her charms."

How beautiful she is! how fair She lies within those arms, that press Her form with many a soft caress Of tenderness and watchful care! Sail forth into the sea, O ship! Through wind and wave, right onward steer! The moistened eye, the trembling lip, Are not the signs of doubt or fear.

Sail forth into the sea of life, O gentle, loving, trusting wife, And safe from all adversity, Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings be! For gentleness, and love, and trust, Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives!

Thou, too, sail on, O ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great! Humanity, with all its fears, With all its hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate! We know what Master laid thy keel, What workman wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge, and what a heat, Were shaped the anchors of thy hope.

Fear not each sudden sound and shock; 'T is of the wave, and not the rock; 'T is but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale. In spite of rock and tempest roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea. Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee: Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee--are all with thee. H. W. Longfellow.

CLXXXV.

THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT.

Forced from home and all its pleasures, Afric's coast I left forlorn; To increase a stranger's treasures, O'er the raging billows borne. Men from England bought and sold me, Paid my price in paltry gold; But though slave they have enrolled me, Minds are never to be sold. Still in thought as free as ever, What are England's rights, I ask, Me from my delights to sever, Me to torture, me to task? Fleecy locks and black complexion Cannot forfeit Nature's claim; Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same.

Why did all-creating Nature Make the plant for which we toil? Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters, iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards; Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords.

Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, Is there One who reigns on high? Has He bid you buy and sell us, Speaking from His throne, the sky? Ask Him, if your knotted scourges, Matches, blood-extorting screws, Are the means that duty urges Agents of His will to use?

Hark! He answers,--wild tornadoes, Strewing yonder sea with wrecks, Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, Are the voice with which He speaks. He, foreseeing what vexations Afric's sons should undergo, Fixed their tyrants' habitation Where his whirlwinds answer--No.

By our blood in Afric wasted, Ere our necks received the chain; By the miseries that we tasted, Crossing in your barks the main; By our suffering since ye brought us To the man-degrading mart; All, sustained by patience, taught us Only by a broken heart.

Deem our nation brutes no longer, Till some reason ye shall find Worthier of regard, and stronger Than the color of our kind. Slaves of gold! whose sordid dealings Tarnish all your boasted powers, Prove that you have human feelings, Ere you proudly question ours. W. Cowper.

CLXXXVI.

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

Toll for the brave! the brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, and laid her on her side. A laud-breeze shook the shrouds, and she was overset; Down went the Royal George, with all her crew complete! Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought his work of glory done. It was not in the battle; no tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak; she ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath, his fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down, with twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up, once dreaded by our foes, And mingle with our cup the tear that England owes! Her timbers yet are sound, and she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, and plow the distant main. But Kempenfelt is gone, his victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred shall plow the waves no more. W. Cowper.

CXXXVII.

SLAVERY.

O for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumor of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, Might never reach me more. My ear is pained, My soul is sick, with every day's report Of wrong and outrage, with which earth is filled. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart; It does not feel for man; the natural bond Of brotherhood is severed as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not colored like his own; and having power To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause, Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And worse than all, and most to be deplored, As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush, And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews, bought and sold, has ever earned. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation prized above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave, And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. We have no slaves at home--then why abroad? And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free; They touch our country, and their shackles fall. That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it, then, And let it circulate through every vein Of all your empire; that, where Britain's power Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. W. Cowper.

CLXXXVIII.

THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY.

Blaze with your serried columns! I will not bend the knee! The shackles ne'er again shall bind The arm which now is free. I've mailed it with the thunder, When the tempest muttered low; And where it falls, ye well may dread The lightning of its blow!

I've scared ye in the city, I've scalped ye on the plain; Go, count your chosen, where they fell Beneath my leaden rain! I scorn your proffered treaty! The pale-face I defy! Revenge is stamped upon my spear, And blood my battle-cry!

Ye've trailed me through the forest, Ye've tracked me o'er the stream; And struggling through the everglade, Your bristling bayonets gleam; But I stand as should the warrior, With his rifle and his spear;-- The scalp of vengeance still is red, And warns ye,--Come not here!

I loathe ye in my bosom, I scorn ye with my eye, And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath, And fight ye till I die! I never will ask ye quarter, And I never will be your slave; But I'll swim the sea of slaughter, Till I sink beneath the wave! G. W. Patten.

CLXXXIX.

THE THREE BEATS.

Roll--roll!--How gladly swell the distant notes From where, on high, yon starry pennon floats! Roll--roll!--On, gorgeously they come, With plumes low-stooping, on their winding way, With lances gleaming in the sun's bright ray:-- "What do ye here, my merry comrades,--say?"-- "We beat the gathering drum; 'T is this which gives to mirth a lighter tone, To the young soldier's cheek a deeper glow, When stretched upon his grassy couch, alone, It steals upon his ear,--this martial call Prompts him to dreams of gorgeous war, with all

"Its pageantry and show!" Roll--roll!--"What is it that ye beat?" "We sound the charge!--On with the courser fleet!-- Where 'mid the columns, red war's eagles fly, We swear to do or die!-- 'T is this which feeds the fires of Fame with breath, Which steels the soldier's heart to deeds of death; And when his hand, Fatigued with slaughter, pauses o'er the slain, 'T is this which prompts him madly once again To seize the bloody brand!"

Roll--roll!--"Brothers, what do ye here, Slowly and sadly as ye pass along, With your dull march and low funereal song?" "Comrade! we bear a bier! I saw him fall! And, as he lay beneath his steed, one thought, (Strange how the mind such fancy should have wrought!) That, had he died beneath his native skies, Perchance some gentle bride had closed his eyes And wept beside his pall!" G. W. Patten.

CXC.

THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vales, O pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters; As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war! Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre!