HIS falchion flashed along the Nile;
His hosts he led through Alpine snows;
O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while,
His eagle flag unrolled, and froze.
Here sleeps he now, alone! Not one,
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave,
Bends o'er his dust;-nor wife nor son
Has ever seen or sought his grave.
Behind this sea-girt rock, the star
That led him on from crown to crown
Has sunk; and nations from afar
Gazed as it faded and went down.
High is his couch; - the ocean flood,
Far, far below, by storms is curled,
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
A stormy and unstable world.
Alone he sleeps! The mountain cloud
That night hangs round him, and the breath Of morning scatters, is the shroud
That wraps the conqueror's clay in death.
Pause here! The far-off world, at last,
Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones,
And to the earth its mitres cast,
Lies powerless now beneath these stones.
Hark! comes there from the pyramids,
And from Siberian wastes of snow,
And Europe's hills, a voice that bids
The world he awed to mourn him? No.
The only, the perpetual dirge
That's heard here, is the sea-bird's cry,The mournful murmur of the surge,
The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh.
WHO is the happy warrior? Who is he
That every man in arms should wish to be?-
It is the generous spirit, who, when brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought:
Whose high endeavors are an inward light
That makes the path before him always bright;
Who, with a natural instinct to discern
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn;
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there,
But makes his moral being his prime care:
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain,
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train!
Turns his necessity to glorious gain;
In face of these doth exercise a power
Which is our human nature's highest dower
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
Of their bad influence, and their good receives;
By objects which might force the soul to abate
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate;
Is placable, because occasions rise
So often that demand such sacrifice
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,
As tempted more; more able to endure,
As more exposed to suffering and distress;
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
"Tis he whose law is reason; who depends
Upon that law as on the best of friends;
Whence, in a state where men are tempted still
To evil for a guard against worse ill,
And what in quality or act is best
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
He labors good on good to fix, and owes
To virtue every triumph that he knows;
Who, if he rise to station of command,
Rises by open means; and there will stand
On honorable terms, or else retire,
And in himself possess his own desire;
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim;
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
For wealth or honors, or for worldly state;
Whom they must follow, on whose head must
fall
Like showers of manna, if they come at all;
Whose powers shed round him in the common
Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
A constant influence, a peculiar grace;
But who, if he be called upon to face
Some awful moment, to which Heaven has joined
Great issues, good or bad for human kind,
Is happy as a lover, and attired
With sudden brightness, like a man inspired;
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;
Or, if an unexpected call succeed,
Come when it will, is equal to the need;
He who, though thus endued, as with a sense
And faculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a soul whose master-bias leans
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes;
Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be,
Are at his heart; and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve;
More brave for this, that he hath much to love:
"Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high,
Conspicuous object in a nation's eye,
Or left, unthought of, in obscurity,—
Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,
Plays, in the many games of life, that one
Where what he most doth value must be won;
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last,
From well to better, daily self-surpassed;
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
Forever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or he must fall and sleep without his fame,
And leave a dead, unprofitable name,—
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause:
This is the happy warrior; this is he
Whom every man in arms should wish to be.
ULYSSES, sailing by the Siren's isle,
Sealed first his comrades' ears, then bade them Bind him with many a fetter to the mast,
Lest those sweet voices should their souls beguile, And to their ruin flatter them, the while
Their homeward bark was sailing swiftly past; And thus the peril they behind them cast, Though chased by those weird voices many a mile. But yet a nobler cunning Orpheus used; No fetter he put on, nor stopped his ear, But ever, as he passed, sang high and clear The blisses of the gods- their holy joys; And with diviner melody confused
And marred earth's sweetest music to a noise.
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