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180

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.

And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our

van, "Remember St. Bartholomew !” was pass'd from man

to man: But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my

foe; Down, down with every foreigner! but let your

brethren go.” Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in

war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of

Navarre ? Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne; Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never

shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor

spearmen's souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms

• be bright; Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward

to-night; For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath

raised the slave, And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the valour

of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre !

Macaulay.

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.

How happy is he born and taught,

That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill:

AN INDIAN AT HIS FATHERS' BURYING-PLACE.

181

Whose passions not his masters are,

Whose soul is still prepared for death; Not tied unto the world with care

Of public fame, or private breath :

Who envies none that chance doth raise,

Nor vice hath ever understood;
How deepest wounds are given by praise,

Nor rules of state, but rules of good :

Who hath his life from rumours freed,

Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed,

Nor ruin make oppressors great:

Who God doth late and early pray,

More of his grace and gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day

With a religious book or friend !

This man is freed from servile bands

Of hope to rise or fear to fall : Lord of himself, though not of lands,

And having nothing, yet hath all.

Wotton.

AN INDIAN AT THE BURYING-PLACE OF

HIS FATHERS.

It is the spot I came to seek

My fathers' ancient burial-place,
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,

Withdrew our wasted race.
It is the spot-I know it well-
Of which our old traditions tell.

182

AN INDIAN AT THE BURYING-PLACE

For here the upland bank sends out

A ridge toward the river side;
I know the shaggy hills about,

The meadows smooth and wide;
The plains, that toward the southern sky,
Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

A white man, gazing on the scene,

Would say a lovely spot was here,
And praise the lawns so fresh and green,

Between the hills so sheer.
I like it not-I would the plain
Lay in its tall old groves again.

The sheep are on the slopes around,

The cattle in the meadows feed,
And labourers turn the crumbling ground,

Or drop the yellow seed;
And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,
Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way.

Methinks it were a nobler sight

To see these vales in woods arrayed,
Their summits in the golden light,

Their trunks in grateful shade;
And herds of deer, that bounding go
O'er rills and prostrate trees below.

And then to mark the lord of all,

The forest hero, trained to wars,
Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall,

And seamed with glorious scars,
Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare
The wolf, and grapple with the bear.

OF HIS FATHERS.

183

THE SAME CONTINUED,

This bank, in which the dead were laid,

Was sacred when its soil was ours; Hither the artless Indian maid

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, And the grey

chief and gifted seer Worshipped the God of thunders here.

But now the wheat is green and high

On clods that hid the warrior's breast,
And scattered in the furrows lie

The weapons
And there, in the loose sand is thrown
Of his large arm the mouldering bone.

of his rest;

Ah! little thought the strong and brave,

Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth, Or the young wife, that weeping gave

Her first-born to the earthThat the pale race, who waste us now, Among their bones should guide the plough.

They waste us—ay, like April snow,

In the warm noon we shrink away;
And fast they follow, as we go

Towards the setting day-
Till they shall fill the land, and we
Are driven into the western sea.

But I behold a fearful sign,

To which the white men's eyes are blind;
Their race may vanish hence, like mine,

And leave no trace behind-
Save ruins o'er the region spread,
And the white stones above dead.

184

ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN.

Before these fields were shorn and tilled,

Full to the brim our rivers flowed;
The melody of waters filled

The fresh and boundless wood;
And torrents dashed, and rivulets played,
And fountains spouted in the shade.
Those grateful sounds are heard no more:

The springs are silent in the sun,
The rivers, by the blackened shore,

With lessening current run;
The realm our tribes are crushed to get,
May be a barren desert yet.

Bryant.

a

ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN.

a

Ou thou vast Ocean! ever-sounding sea!
Thou symbol of a drear immensity!
Thou thing that windest round the solid world
Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled
From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone,
Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone.
Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep
Is like a giant's slumber, loud and deep.
Thou speakest in the east and in the west
At once, and on thy heavily-laden breast
Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life
Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife.
The earth hath nought of this; nor chance nor change
Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare
Give answer to the tempest-waken air ;
But o'er its wastes the weekly tenants range
At will, and wound his bosom as they go.
Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow;
But in their stated round the seasons come
And
pass

like visions to their viewless home,

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