A Library of Poetry and Song: Being Choice Selections from the Best Poets

POEMS OF PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM.

BREATHES THERE THE MAN BREATHES there the man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering on a foreign strand ! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his tiles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

MY COUNTRY.

THERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside,
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons imparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth:
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air.
In every clime, the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land of Heaven's peculiar race,
The heritage of nature's noblest grace,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly Eend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life:

Though Heaven alone records the tear,
And Fame shall never know her story,
Her heart has shed a drop as dear

As e'er bedewed the field of glory!

II.

The wife who girds her husband's sword,
Mid little ones who weep or wonder,
And bravely speaks the cheering word,

What though her heart be rent asunder,
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear

The bolts of death around him rattle, Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er

Was poured upon the field of battle!

III.

The mother who conceals her grief

While to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, With no one but her secret God

To know the pain that weighs upon her,
Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod

Received on Freedom's field of honor!
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS.

A host glared on the hill; a host glared by the bay; But the Greeks rushed onward still, like ieopards in their play.

The air was all a yell, and the earth was all a flame, Where the Spartan's bloody steel on the silken turbans came;

And still the Greek rushed on where the fiery torrent rolled,

Till like a rising sun shone Xerxes' tent of gold.

They found a royal feast, his midnight banquet,
there;

And the treasures of the East lay beneath the
Doric spear.

Then sat to the repast the bravest of the brave!
That feast must be their last, that spot must be
their grave.

Up rose the glorious rank, to Greece one cup poured high,

Then hand in hand they drank, "To immortality!"

Fear on King Xerxes fell, when, like spirits from the tomb,

With shout and trumpet knell, he saw the warriors come.

But down swept all his power, with chariot and with charge;

a storm was on the Down poured the arrows' shower, till sank the Spartan targe.

sky; The lightning gave its light, and the thunder echoed by.

The torrent swept the glen, the ocean lashed the shore ;

Then rose the Spartan men, to make their bed in gore!

Swift from the deluged ground three hundred took the shield;

Then, in silence, gathered round the leader of the field!

All up the mountain's side, all down the woody vale,

All by the rolling tide waved the Persian banners pale.

And foremost from the pass, among the slumbering band,

Sprang King Leonidas, like the lightning's living brand.

Then double darkness fell, and the forest ceased its moan;

But there came a clash of steel, and a distant dy-
ing groan.

Anon, a trumpet blew, and a fiery sheet burst high,
That o'er the midnight threw a blood-red canopy.

Thus fought the Greek of old! thus will he fight again!

Shall not the selfsame mould bring forth the self

same men?

GEORGE CROLY.

PERICLES AND ASPASIA.

THIS was the ruler of the land

When Athens was the land of fame;
This was the light that led the band

When each was like a living flame;
The centre of earth's noblest ring,
Of more than men the more than king.
Yet not by fetter, nor by spear,

His sovereignty was held or won :
Feared but alone as freemen fear,
Loved but as freemen love alone,
He waved the sceptre o'er his kind
By nature's first great title, mind!

Resistless words were on his tongue,

Then eloquence first flashed below;
Full armed to life the portent sprung,

Minerva from the thunderer's brow!

And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odds For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his gods?

"And for the tender mother
Who dandled him to rest,
And for the wife who nurses
His baby at her breast,
And for the holy maidens

Who feed the eternal flame,
To save them from false Sextus

That wrought the deed of shame ?

"Hew down the bridge, sir consul, With all the speed ye may ; I, with two more to help me,

Will hold the foe in play, In yon strait path a thousand

May well be stopped by three.

Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?"

Then outspake Spurius Lartius,

A Ramnian proud was he : "Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee." And outspake strong Herminius, Of Titian blood was he: "I will abide on thy left side,

And keep the bridge with thee."

The three stood calm and silent,
And looked upon the foes,
And a great shout of laughter

From all the vanguard rose;

And forth three chief came spurring

Before that deep array;

To earth they sprang, their swords they drew,

And lifted high their shields, and flew

To win the narrow way.

A anus, from green Tifernum,

Lord of the hill of vines;

And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves

Sicken in Ilva's mines;

And Picus, long to Clusium

Vassal in peace and war,

Who led to fight his Umbrian powers

From that gray crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum lowers

O'er the pale waves of Nar.

Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus Into the stream beneath; Herminius struck at Seius,

And clove him to the teeth;

At Picus brave Horatius

Darted one fiery thrust,

And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms Clashed in the bloody dust.

Then Ocnus of Falerii

Rushed on the Roman three; And Lausulus of Urgo,

The rover of the sea; And Aruns of Volsinium,

Who slew the great wild boar, The great wild boar that had his den Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, Along Albinia's shore.

Herminius smote down Aruns;

Lartius laid Ocnus low; Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow:

"Lie there," he cried, "fell pirate!

No more, aghast and pale,

From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark
The track of thy destroying bark ;
No more Campania's hinds shall fly
To woods and caverns, when they spy
Thy thrice-accursed sail !"

But now no sound of laughter
Was heard among the foes;

A wild and wrathful clamor
From all the vanguard rose.
Six spears' lengths from the entrance,
Halted that deep array,

And for a space no man came forth
To win the narrow way.

But, hark! the cry is Astur:
And lo! the ranks divide ;
And the great lord of Luna

Comes with his stately stride.
Upon his ample shoulders

Clangs loud the fourfold shield, And in his hand he shakes the brand Which none but he can wield.

He smiled on those bold Romans,
A smile serene and high;

He eyed the flinching Tuscans,
And scorn was in his eye.
Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter
Stand savagely at bay;
But will ye dare to follow,
If Astur clears the way?"

Then, whirling up his broadsword
With both hands to the height,
He rushed against Horatius,
And smote with all his might.

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