Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late,

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon Death's purple altar now,

See, where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your head must come

To the cold tomb,

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

IN AN AGE OF FOPS AND TOYS.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

In an age of fops and toys,
Wanting wisdom, void of right,
Who shall nerve heroic boys

To hazard all in Freedom's fight,

Break sharply off their jolly games,
Forsake their comrades gay

And quit proud homes and youthful dames

For famine, toil and fray?

Yet on the nimble air benign

Speed nimbler messages,

That waft the breath of grace divine

To hearts in sloth and ease.

So nigh is grandeur to our dust,

So near is God to man,

When Duty whispers low, Thou must,

The youth replies, I can.

THE UNDERTAKING.

John Donne.

I HAVE done one braver thing
Than all the Worthies did;

And yet a braver thence doth spring,

Which is, to keep that hid.

It were but madness now t' impart

The skill of specular stone,

When he, which can have learn'd the art

To cut it, can find none.

So, if I now should utter this,

Others (because no more

Such stuff to work upon there is)

Would love but as before:

But he, who loveliness within
Hath found, all outward loathes;
For he who color loves and skin,
Loves but their oldest clothes.

If, as I have, you also do
Virtue [attired] in woman see,
And dare love that, and say so too,
And forget the He and She;

And if this love, though placed so,
From profane men you hide,

Which will no faith on this bestow,

Or, if they do, deride;

Then you have done a braver thing

Than all the Worthies did,

And a braver thence will spring,

Which is, to keep that hid.

THE BELLS OF SHANDON.

Francis Sylvester Mahoney.

WITH deep affection and recollection

I often think of those Shandon bells,

Whose sounds so wild would, in the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle their magic spells.

On this I ponder where'er I wander,

And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;

With thy bells of Shandon,

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee,

I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in,

Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine,

While at a glibe rate brass tongues would vibrate –
But all their music spoke nought like thine;
For memory dwelling on each proud swelling
Of the belfry knelling its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon

Sound far more grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

I've heard bells tolling old "Adrian's Mole" in,
Their thunder rolling from the Vatican,

And cymbals glorious swinging uproarious

In the gorgeous turrets of Nôtre Dame;

But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly;

O! the bells of Shandon

Sound far more grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

There's a bell in Moscow, while on tower and kiosk O!

In Saint Sophia the Turkman gets,

And loud in air calls men to prayer

From the tapering summit of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom I freely grant them;

But there is an anthem more dear to me, — "Tis the bells of Shandon,

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

FOR A' THAT AN' A' THAT.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin gray, an' a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A Man's a Man for a' that:

For a' that, an' a' that,

Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae3 poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.