The Universal Reciter Part 45

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and s.h.i.+pwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing Learn to labour and to wait.

THE LAST MAN.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, the sun himself must die, before this mortal shall a.s.sume its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep that gave my spirit strength to sweep adown the gulf of Time!

I saw the last of human mould that shall Creation's death behold, as Adam saw her prime! The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, the earth with age was wan; the skeletons of nations were around that lonely man!

Some had expired in fight--the brands still rusted in their bony hands; in plague and famine some. Earth's cities had no sound or tread, and s.h.i.+ps were drifting with the dead to sh.o.r.es where all was dumb. Yet, prophet-like, that Lone One stood, with dauntless words and high, that shook the sere leaves from the wood as if a storm pa.s.sed by, saying--"We are twins in death, proud Sun! thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'tis mercy bids thee go; for thou ten thousand years hast seen the tide of human tears--that shall no longer flow. What though beneath thee, man put forth his pomp, his pride, his skill; and arts that made fire, flood, and earth, the va.s.sals of his will?--yet mourn I not thy parted sway, thou dim, discrowned king of day; for all those trophied arts and triumphs, that beneath thee sprang, healed not a pa.s.sion or a pang entailed on human hearts. Go! let Oblivion's curtain fall upon the stage of men! nor with thy rising beams recall life's tragedy again! Its piteous pageants bring not back, nor waken flesh upon the rack of pain anew to writhe, stretched in Disease's shapes abhorred, or mown in battle by the sword, like gra.s.s beneath the scythe! Even I am weary in yon skies to watch thy fading fire: test of all sumless agonies, behold not me expire! My lips, that speak thy dirge of death, their rounded gasp and gurgling breath to see, thou shalt not boast; the eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, the majesty of Darkness shall receive my parting ghost! The spirit shall return to Him who gave its heavenly spark; yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim when thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and s.h.i.+ne in bliss unknown to beams of thine; by Him recalled to breath, who captive led captivity, who robbed the grave of victory, and took the sting from Death! Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up on Nature's awful waste, to drink this last and bitter cup of grief that man shall taste,--go! tell the night that hides thy face thou saw'st the last of Adam's race on earth's sepulchral clod, the darkening universe defy to quench his immortality, or shake his trust in G.o.d!"

THE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATHA.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

A LEGEND OF "THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE."

A.D. 1154-1864.

A strong and mighty Angel, Calm, terrible and bright, The cross in blended red and blue Upon his mantle white!

Two captives by him kneeling, Each on his broken chain, Sang praise to G.o.d who raiseth The dead to life again!

Dropping his cross-wrought mantle, "Wear this," the Angel said; "Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its sign-- The white, the blue, the red."

Then rose up John de Matha In the strength the Lord Christ gave, And begged through all the land of France The ransom of the slave.

The gates of tower and castle Before him open flew, The drawbridge at his coming fell, The door-bolt backward drew.

For all men owned his errand, And paid his righteous tax; And the hearts of lord and peasant Were in his hands as wax.

At last, outbound from Tunis, His bark her anchor weighed, Freighted with seven score Christian souls Whose ransom he had paid.

But, torn by Paynim hatred, Her sails in tatters hung; And on the wild waves rudderless, A shattered hulk she swung.

"G.o.d save us!" cried the captain, For naught can man avail: O, woe betide the s.h.i.+p that lacks Her rudder and her sail!

"Behind us are the Moormen; At sea we sink or strand: There's death upon the water, There's death upon the land!"

Then up spake John de Matha: "G.o.d's errands never fail!

Take thou the mantle which I wear, And make of it a sail."

They raised the cross-wrought mantle, The blue, the white, the red; And straight before the wind off-sh.o.r.e The s.h.i.+p of Freedom sped.

"G.o.d help us!" cried the seamen, "For vain is mortal skill; The good s.h.i.+p on a stormy sea Is drifting at its will."

Then up spake John de Matha: "My mariners, never fear!

The Lord whose breath has filled her sail May well our vessel steer!"

So on through storm and darkness They drove for weary hours; And lo! the third gray morning shone On Ostia's friendly towers.

And on the walls the watchers The s.h.i.+p of mercy knew-- They knew far off its holy cross, The red, the white, the blue.

And the bells in all the steeples Rang out in glad accord, To welcome home to Christian soil The ransomed of the Lord.

So runs the ancient legend By bard and painter told; And lo! the cycle rounds again, The new is as the old!

With rudder foully broken, And sails by traitors torn, Our country on a midnight sea Is waiting for the morn.

Before her, nameless terror; Behind, the pirate foe; The clouds are black above her, The sea is white below.

The hope of all who suffer, The dread of all who wrong, She drifts in darkness and in storm, How long, O Lord! how long?

But courage, O my mariners!

Ye shall not suffer wreck, While up to G.o.d the freedman's prayers Are rising from your deck.

Is not your sail the banner Which G.o.d hath blest anew, The mantle that de Matha wore, The red, the white, the blue?

Its hues are all of heaven-- The red of sunset's dye The whiteness of the moonlit cloud, The blue of morning's sky.

Wait cheerily, then, O mariners, For daylight and for land; The breath of G.o.d is on your sail, Your rudder in His hand.

Sail on, sail on, deep freighted With blessings and with hopes; The saints of old with shadowy hands Are pulling at your ropes.

Behind ye, holy martyrs Uplift the palm and crown; Before ye, unborn ages send Their benedictions down.

Take heart from John de Matha!-- G.o.d's errands never fail!

Sweep on through storm and darkness, The thunder and the hail!

Sail on! The morning cometh, The port ye yet shall win; And all the bells of G.o.d shall ring The good s.h.i.+p bravely in!

THE POLISH BOY.

ANN S. STEPHENS.

Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill, That cut, like blades of steel, the air, Causing the creeping blood to chill With the sharp cadence of despair?