"GOLD is, in its last analysis, the sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave."-JOSEPH NAPOLEON.
WASTE treasure like water, ye noble and great!
Spend the wealth of the world to increase Pile up your temples of marble, and raise Columns and domes, that the people may gaze And wonder at beauty, so gorgeously shown
By subjects more rich than the king on his throne.
Lavish and squander-for why should ye save
'The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave!"
Pour wine into goblets all crusted with gems
Wear pearls on your collars and pearls on your hems;
Let diamonds in splendid profusion outvie
The myriad stars of a tropical sky!
Though from the night of the fathomless mine
These may be dug at your banquet to shine,
Little care ye for the chains of the slave,
"The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave."
Behold, at your gates stand the feeble and old-
Let them burn in the sunshine and freeze in the cold;
Let them starve: though a morsel, a drop will impart
New vigour and warmth to the limb and the heart:
You taste not their anguish, you feel not their pain,
Your heads are not bare to the wind and the rain-
Must wretches like these of your charity crave
"The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave ?"
An army goes out in the morn's early light,
Ten thousand gay soldiers equipped for the fight;
An army comes home at the closing of day—
Oh, where are their banners, their goodly array?
Ye widows and orphans, bewail not so loud—
Your groans may embitter the feast of the proud;
To win for their store, did the wild battle rave,
"The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave."
Gold! gold! in all ages the curse of mankind,
Thy fetters are forged for the soul and the mind:
The limbs may be free as the wings of a bird,
And the mind be the slave of a look and a word.
To gain thee, men barter eternity's crown,
Yield honour, affection, and lasting renown,
And mingle like foam with life's swift-rushing wave
"The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave.”
HIS is the bird that sweeps o'er the sea-
Fearless and rapid and strong is he;
He never forsakes the billowy roar,
To awell in calm on the tranquil shore,
Save when his mate from the tempest's shocks
Protects her young in the splintered rocks.
Birds of the sea, they rejoice in storms;
On the top of the wave you may see their forms— They run and dive, and they whirl and fly,
Where the glittering foam-spray breaks on high;
And against the force of the strongest gale,
Like phantom-ships they soar and sail.
All over the ocean, far from land,
When the storm-king rises, dark and grand,
The mariner sees the petrel meet
'The fathomless waves with steady feet,
And a tireless wing and a dauntless breast,
Without a home or a hope of rest.
So, mid the contest and toil of life,
My soul! when the billows of rage and strife
Are tossing high, and the heavenly blue
Is shrouded by vapours of sombre hue-
Like the petrel wheeling o'er foam and spray,
Onward and upward pursue thy way!
HERE is a voice I shall hear no more
There are tones whose music for me is o'er;
Sweet as the odours of spring were they,
Precious and rich-but they died away;
They came like peace to my heart and ear--
Never again will they murmur here;
They have gone like the blush of a summer morn,
Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne.
There were eyes, that late were lit up for me,
Whose kindly glance was a joy to see;
They revealed the thoughts of a trusting heart
Untouched by sorrow, untaught by art;
Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring,
When birds in the vernal branches sing;
They were filled with love that hath passed with them,
And my lyre is breathing their requiem.
I remember a brow, whose serene repose
Seemed to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose;
And lips I remember, whose dewy smile,
As I mused on their eloquent power the while,
Sent a thrill to my bosom, and blessed my brain
With raptures that never may dawn again;
Amidst musical accents those smiles were shed-
Alas for the doom of the early dead!
Alas for the clod that is resting now
On those slumbering eyes-on that fated brow!
Woe for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom-
For the lips that are dumb in the noisome tomb -
Their melody broken, their fragrance gone,
Their aspect cold as the Parian stone!
Alas for the hopes that with thee have died--
O loved one! would I were by thy side!
Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear;
I hear thy voice in the twilight air;
Thy smile, of sweetness untold, I see
When the visions of evening are borne to me;
Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm-
My arm embraceth thy graceful form;
I wake in a world that is sad and drear,
To feel in my bosom-thou art not here.
Oh! once the summer with thee was bright;
The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light.
There was bliss in existence when thou wert nigh,
There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh;
Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest-
A Sabbath of blessings was in my breast;
My heart was full of a sense of love,
Likest of all things to heaven above.
Now, thou art gone to that voiceless hall
Where my budding raptures have perished all;
To that tranquil and solemn place of rest
Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast;
Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid,
Thy brow is concealed by the coffin-lid;
All that was lovely to me is there-
Mournful is life, and a load to bear!
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
EACH AND ALL.
LITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown
Of thee from the hill-top looking down;
The heifer that lows in the upland farm,
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;
The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,
Deems not that great NAPOLEON
Stops his horse, and lists with delight,
Whilst his files sweep around yon Alpine height;
Nor knowest thou what argument
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent,
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