The Land of Song Volume Iii Part 25

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore!

The glory from his gray hairs gone Forevermore!

Revile him not,--the Tempter hath A snare for all; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Befit his fall!

O, dumb be pa.s.sion's stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night.

Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven!

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!

Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

THE LOST LEADER.

Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat-- Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allowed: How all our copper had gone for his service!

Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud!

We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die!

Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Sh.e.l.ley, were with us,--they watch from their graves!

He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

We shall march prospering,--not thro' his presence; Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre; Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire.

Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devil's triumph, and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to G.o.d!

Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!

There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight, Never glad, confident morning again!

Best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

ROBERT BROWNING.

THE FALL OF POLAND.

O sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and tw.a.n.ged her trumpet horn; Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland--and to man.

Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,-- O Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save!-- Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?

Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!

By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, And swear for her to live--with her to die!

He said, and on the rampart heights arrayed His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed; Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge, or death,--the watchword and reply; Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm.

In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!

From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew:-- Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe.

Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career;-- Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked--as Kosciusko fell.

The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there, Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air-- On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below; The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way, Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay.

Hark, as the smoldering piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call!

Earth shook--red meteors flashed along the sky, And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry!

O righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save?

Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod, That smote the foes of Zion and of G.o.d; That crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar?

Where was the storm that slumbered till the host Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast; Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, And heaved an ocean on their march below?

Departed spirits of the mighty dead!

Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled!

Friends of the world! restore your swords to man, Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van!

Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, And make her arm puissant as your own!

Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return The patriot Tell--the Bruce of Bannockburn!

Yes, thy proud lords, unpitied land, shall see That man hath yet a soul--and dare be free.

A little while, along thy saddening plains, The starless night of desolation reigns; Truth shall restore the light by Nature given, And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven.

p.r.o.ne to the dust Oppression shall be hurled, Her name, her nature, withered from the world.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

_From "The Pleasures of Hope."_

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.

The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright, The harp of Tara swells: The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives, Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives.

THOMAS MOORE.

[Ill.u.s.tration: STOKE POGIS CHURCH.

(_The Scene of Gray's Elegy._)]

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.