I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Thou could'st develop-if that withered tongue Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen Statue of flesh-Immortal of the dead! Imperishable type of evanescence! Posthumous man- who quitt'st thy narrow bed, And standest undecayed within our presence! Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning, When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning. How the world looked when it was fresh and Why should this worthless tegument endure, young, And the great deluge still had left it green; Or was it then so old that history's pages Still silent! incommunicative elf! Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows; But prythee tell us something of thyself— Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house; Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered What hast thou seen-what strange adventures numbered? Since first thy form was in this box extended We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations: The Roman empire has begun and ended — New worlds have risen- we have lost old nations; And countless kings have into dust been humbled, While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis; And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, face? What was thy name and station, age and race? If its undying guest be lost for ever? In living virtue-that when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom! HORACE SMITH. Ode to an Indian Gold Coin. SLAVE of the dark and dirty mine! What vanity has brought thee here? How can I love to see thee shine So bright, whom I have bought so dear! The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear For twilight converse, arm in arm; The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear When mirth and music wont to charm. By Cherical's dark, wandering streams, Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, Where loves of youth and friendships smiled Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave! Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade! I haste to an untimely grave; The daring thoughts that soared sublime Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. And, flaming o'er the midnight deep, In lurid fringes thrown, The living gems of ocean sweep Along her flashing zone. With clashing wheel, and lifting keel, And smoking torch on high, With even beam she glides, The sunshine glimmering through the green That skirts her gleaming sides. Now, like a wild nymph, far apart The beating of her restless heart The reddening surges o'er, To-night yon pilot shall not sleep, Who trims his narrowed sail; Her broad breast to the gale; And many a foresail, scooped and strained, Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud, The black throat of the hunted cloud Is panting forth the blast! An hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff, White as the sea-bird's wing! Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep! Nor wind nor wave shall tire With floods of living fire; OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. The Village Blacksmith. UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands: The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; His hair is crisp, and black, and long; His brow is wet with honest sweat And looks the whole world in the face, Week in, week out, from morn till night, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, And children, coming home from school, They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, He hears the parson pray and preach - And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing- 643 Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wroughtThus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. The Song of the Forge. CLANG, clang! the massive anvils ring; Say, brothers of the dusky brow, Clang, clang!- we forge the coulter now- Sweet Mary mother, bless our toil! Clang, clang!- our coulter's course shall be By many a streamlet's silver tide— When regal autumn's bounteous hand Of each resplendent slope, is rolled A ruddy sea of living gold — Clang, clang!-again, my mates, what glows Anxious no more, the merchant sees The mist drive dark before the breeze, The storm-cloud on the hill; Calmly he rests-though far away, In boisterous climes, his vessel lay — Reliant on our skill. Say on what sands these links shall sleep, Say, shall they feel the vessel reel, The crashing broadside makes reply; Hurrah! -cling, clang!— once more, what glows, Clang, clang!-a burning torrent, clear And brilliant of bright sparks, is poured Around, and up in the dusky air, As our hammers forge the sword. The sword! a name of dread; yet when Whenever for the truth and right |