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But 'tis not thus—and 'tis not here,
Such thoughts should shake my soul; nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.
The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see ! The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.
Awake! (not Greece-she is awake !)
Awake, my spirit! think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!
Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood !—unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.
If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live ?
The land of honourable death
Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath
Seek outless often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.
The lark has sung his carol in the sky,
The bees have hummed their noontide lullaby!
Still in the vale the village bells ring round;
Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound;
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer,
And crowding, stop the cradle to admire
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.
A few short years, and then those sounds shall hail
The day again, and gladness fill the vale;
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran.
Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin ;
The ale now brewed, in floods of amber shine;
And basking in the chimney's ample blaze,
'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days,
The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled,
“'Twas on these knees he sat so oft and smiled.”
And soon again shall music swell the breeze :
Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees,
Vestures of nuptial white: and hymns be sung,
And violets scattered round, and old and young,
In every cottage porch, with garlands green,
Stand still to gaze, and gazing bless the scene;
While, her dark eyes declining, by his side,
Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride.
And once, alas! nor in a distant hour,
Another voice shall come from yonder tower;
When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen,
And weeping heard where only joy hath been;
When, by his children borne, and from his door
Slowly departing, to return no more,
He rests in holy earth with them that went before.
And such is human life; so gliding on,
It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone!
Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange,
As full, methinks, of wild and wondrous change,
As any that the wandering tribes require,
Stretched in the desert round their evening fire;
As any song of old in hall or bower,
The minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour!
THE DEPARTURE OF ADAM AND EVE FROM
He ended; and they both descend the hill :
Descended, Adam to the bower where Eve
Lay sleeping, ran before; but found her wak'd;
And thus with words not sad, she him received :
Whence thou return'st, and whither went'st, I know:
For God is also in sleep, and dreams advise,
Which he hath sent propitious, some great good ·
Presaging, since with sorrow and heart's distress
Wearied I fell asleep: but now lead on,
In me is no delay; with thee to go,
Is to stay here: without thee here to stay,
Is to go hence unwilling; thou to me
Art all things under heav'n, all places thou;
Who for my wilful crime art banished hence.
This further consolation yet secure
I carry hence; though all by me is lost,
Such favour I, unworthy, am vouchsaf'd,
By me the Promised Seed shall all restore.
So spake our mother Eve, and Adam heard
Well pleas'd, but answer'd not; for now too nigh
Th’arch-angel stood, and from the other hill
To their fix'd station, all in bright array
The cherubim descended; on the ground
Gliding meteorous, as evening mist
Ris'n from a river, o'er the marish glides,
And gathers ground fast at the labourer's heel
Homeward returning. High in front advanc'd,
The brandish'd sword of God before them blaz'd
Fierce as a comet; which with torrid heat,
And vapour as the Lybian air adust,
Began'to parch that temperate clime; whereat
In either hand the hast'ning angel caught
Our ling’ring parents, and to the eastern gate
Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast
To the subjected plain : then disappear'd.
They looking back, all th' eastern side beheld
Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,
Wav'd over by that flaming brand, the gate
With dreadful faces throng'd and fiery arms.
Some natural tears they dropt, but wip'd them soon :
The world was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide:
They hand in hand, with wand'ring steps and slow,
Through Eden took their solitary way.
Cas. Will you go see the order of the course ?
Bru. Not I.
Cas. I pray you, do.
Bru. I am not gamesome; I do lack some part
Of that quick spirit that is in Anthony ;-
Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires ;
Cas. Brutus, I do observe you now of late :
I have not from your eyes that gentleness,
And show of love, as I was wont to have;
You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand
friend that loves you.
Be not deceiv'd ; if I have veiled my look,
I turn the trouble of my countenance
Merely upon myself. Vexed I am
Of late with passions of some difference,
Conceptions only proper to myself,
Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviour:
But let not therefore my good friends be griev'd
(Among which number, Cassius, be you one),
Nor construe any
Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,
Forgets the shows of love to other men.
Cas. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your
By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried
Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations,
Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?
Bru. No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself,
But by reflection, by some other thing.
Cas. 'Tis just :
And it is very much lamented, Brutus,
have no such mirrors, as will turn
Your hidden worthiness into your eye,
That you might see your shadow. I have heard,
Where many of the best respect in Rome
(Except immortal Cæsar), speaking of Brutus,
And groaning underneath this age's yoke,
Have wish'd that noble Brutus had his eyes.
Bru. Into what dangers would you
me, Cassius, That you
would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me?
Cas. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear : And since you
know you cannot see yourself
So well as by reflection, I, your glass,
Will modestly discover to yourself
That of yourself which yet you know not of:
And be not jealous of me, gentle Brutus:
Were I a common laugher, or did use
To stale with ordinary oaths my love
To every new protester; if
know That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard, And after scandal them; or if you
know That I profess myself in banquetting To all the rout, then hold me dangerous.