A summer bloom on his fair cheek, a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour,
That pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried
For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! rouse, ye slaves!
Have ye brave sons? Look in the next fierce brawl
To see them die. Have ye fair daughters? Look
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained,
Dishonored; and if ye dare call for justice,
Be answered by the lash!
That sat on her seven hills, and, from her throne
Of beauty, ruled the world! Yet we are Romans!
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman,
Was greater than a king! and once again-
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread
Of either Brutus! once, again, I swear,
The eternal city shall be free.
CLXVII. THE SAILOR BOY'S DREAM.
1 IN slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay;
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind;
But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.
2. He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn;
While memory stood sidewise, half-covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.
3. Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstacy rise—
Now far, far behind him the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.
The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,
And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall;
All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.
5. A father bends o'er him with looks of delight,
His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear,
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite
With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. 6 The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,
Joy quickens his pulse-all his hardships seem o'er,
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest-
"Oh God thou hast blest me-I ask for no more."
Ah! what is that flame, which now bursts on his eye?
Ah! what is that sound which now larums his ear?
'T is the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky!
'Tis the crash of the thunder, the groan of the sphere!
9. He springs from his hammock-he flies to the deck;
Amazement confronts him with images dire—
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck-
The masts fly in splinters-the shrouds are on fire!
9. Like mountains the billows tremendously swell-
In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save;
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,
And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave!
10. Oh! sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight!
In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of blissWhere now is the picture that fancy touched bright, Thy parent's fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss?
11. Oh! sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again
Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay;
Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main,
Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay.
12. No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,
Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge:
But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be,
And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge.
13 On beds of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be laid,
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made.
And every part suit to thy mansion below.
14. Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away,
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll-
Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye—
Oh! sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul. DIMOND.
CLXVIII.--HENRY V. AT HARFLEUR.
1. ONCE more unto the breach, dear triends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility;
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it,
As fearfully as doth a gall-ed rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean.
2. Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
To his full hight. Now on, you noblest English,
Whose blood is fetched from fathers of war-proof;
Fathers, that like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought,
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war!
3. And you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs are made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not.
For there is none of you so mean and base
That hath not noble luster in your eye;
I see you stand like grayhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start: the game's a-foot;
Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge,
Cry, Heaven for Harry, England, and St. George!
CLXIX.-SEVEN AGES OF MAN.
1 ALL the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover,
Sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like a pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth.
2. And then, the justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lined,
With eyes severc, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances:
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange, eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.
1. PARRHASIUS stood, gazing forgetfully
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay,
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus,
The vultures at his vitals, and the links
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim,
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows wild
Forth with his reaching fancy, and with form
And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip,
Were like the winged god's breathing from his flight.
"Bring me the captive now!
My hand feels skillful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift;
And I could paint the bow
pon the bended heavens; around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.
66 'Ha! bind him on his back!
Look! as Prometheus in my picture here!
Quick! or he faints! stand with the cordial near!
Now, bend him to the rack!
Press down the poisoned links into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh!
So! let him writhe! How long
Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow!
Ha! gray-haired, and so strong!
How fearfully he stifles that short moan!
Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!
'Pity' thee? So I do ;
I pity the dumb victim at the altar;
But does the robed priest for his pity falter?
I'd rack thee, though I knew
A thousand lives were perishing in thine;
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?
"Ah! there's a deathless name!
A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And, like a steadfast planet, mount and burn;
And though its crown of flame
Consumed my brain to ashes as it won me;
By all the fiery stars! I'd pluck it on me!
"Ay, though it bid me rifle
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst;
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first;
Though it should bid me stifle
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild.
"All! I would do it all,
Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot;
Thrust foully in the earth to be forgot.
Oh heavens! but I appall
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