168 WRITTEN AFTER SPENDING A DAY, ETC.

The Chief's eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes

A film the mother eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes : "You're wounded:" "Nay," his soldier's pride

Touched to the quick, he said:

"I'm killed, sire!" And, his Chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead.

R. BROWNING.

WRITTEN AFTER SPENDING A DAY AT WEST POINT.

WERE they but dreams? Upon the darkening world

Evening comes down, the wings of fire are furl'd, On which the day soar'd to the sunny west: The moon sits calmly, like a soul at rest, Looking upon the never-resting earth;

All things in heaven wait on the solemn birth Of night, but where has fled the happy dream That at this hour, last night, our life did seem? Where are the mountains with their tangled hair,

The leafy hollow, and the rocky stair?

Where are the shadows of the solemn hills,

And the fresh music of the summer rills?

WRITTEN AFTER SPENDING A DAY, ETC. 169

Where are the wood-paths, winding, long, and

steep,

And the great, glorious river, broad and deep,
And the thick copses, where soft breezes meet,
And the wild torrent's snowy, leaping feet,
The rustling,rocking boughs,the running streams,
Where are they all? gone, gone! were they but
dreams?

And where, oh where are the light footsteps gone,
That from the mountain-side came dancing

down?

The voices full of mirth, the loving eyes,
The happy hearts, the human paradise,

The youth, the love, the life that revelled here,

Are they too gone?-Upon time's shadowy bier,
The pale, cold hours of joys now past are laid,
Perhaps not soon from memory's gaze to fade,
But never to be reckoned o'er again,

In all life's future store of bliss and pain.
From the bright eyes the sunshine may depart,
Youth flies-love dies-and from the joyous
heart

Hope's gushing fountain ebbs too soon away,
Nor spares one drop for that disastrous day,
When from the barren waste of after life,
The weariness, the worldliness, the strife,
The soul looks o'er the desert of its way
To the green gardens of its early day;

The paradise for which we vainly mourn,

The heaven, to which our lingering eyes still

turn,

To which our footsteps never shall return.

F. BUTLER.

THE WOUNDED GREEK.

Nor where the Dorian song arose Triumphant o'er the bold and brave'Twould shake the dead from their repose ;

No! tread not near their dust-thou slave!For, where the Spartan swords have shone, Where glory's banner met the breeze, Each field should be a Marathon!Each warrior a Miltiades!

Think-think of that heroic time

When Thebes sent forth her Sacred Band!And is it not the same proud clime— The same beloved immortal land?— Oh, this should be a thought to speed Her fettered sons to freedom,-this Might call a spirit forth to lead,

Like that which led at Salamis!

171

THE WOUNDED GREEK.

Yet, hark!-a voice from shore to shore
Now swells and gathers like a tide;
The swords are drawn which never more
Shall rest till Moslem power hath died!
The reddening sun of morning glows

On spear and banner-crest and shield;-
The shock and shout of battling foes
Burst like a whirlwind o'er the field!

But, ah! the stirring sounds that move
The warrior's soul to proud emprise,
Turn faint the watching hearts of love;-
Make dim the fond and anxious eyes:-
The stormy close-the severed line-
The bickering sabres' deadly sweep-
Rifle the rose from beauty's shrine;

And matrons tremble while they weep!

Fast-fast the turbaned tyrant quails
Before a youthful leader's might;-

Till 'neath the bolt of combat fails

That arm-the beacon of the fight! Whilst, round the wing of conquest soars—

Whilst fame and freedom nerve each band

Oh, how his gallant soul deplores

His useless sword-his powerless hand!

A mournful wife before him kneels-
A sister's love his arm entwines ;-
But not-oh, not for these he feels-
His heart is with his bannered lines!-
Nor wife-child-sister-yet may turn
His thirsting spirit from that goal;
No tears may quench the fires that burn
Deep in his young and patriot soul!

From all, with one "farewell," he speeds,
And bears within his last brave hand
The hallowed cross for which he bleeds-
The standard of his native land!

Still foremost !-Still on high it rose!
Till far and wild the clarion blown,
Told Hellas' triumph o'er her foes,
And Turk and crescent overthrown!

With myrtle bind the warrior's brow,
And bid Olympic garlands wave;
Let wine the wreathed goblet flow,
In honour of the young and brave!
And sound the lyre, as when of old
It sang the conquests of the free!—
The ancient pæans of the bold!-

The glorious meeds of victory!

C. SWAIN.