There sighs, and groans, and lamentable wailings,
So rang throughout that region without star,
That on the threshold I began to weep:
Horrible tongues, discordant languages,
Words full of dolour, accents of sharp anger,
Shrill and hoarse voices, sounds of smitten hands,
Rose in wild tumult, eddying through the gloom,
Like sands before the whirlwind of the desert.
Dante, tr. by James Montgomery.

1794. HELP. Mutual

ONE day a blind man chanced to meet

A lame one limping in the street; The former hoped with fond delight, The latter would conduct him right.

The lame man cried, 'Lend aid to thee?

I cannot walk, unhappy me!
And yet, methinks, to bear a load,
Thou hast good shoulders strong and broad.

'If thou'lt resolve to bear me hence,
I'll be thy guide as recompense:
Thy firm strong foot will then be mine,
And my bright eye be also thine.'

The lame man, with his crutches, rode
Upon the blind man's shoulders broad;
United thus achieved the pair
What each would have accomplish'd ne'er.
Gellert.

1795. HERITAGE: of rich and poor.

THE rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy-chair;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit ?
Stout muscle and a sinewy heart,

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;

A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit? A patience learn'd of being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,

A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless the door;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,

Are equal in the earth at last;
Both, children of the same dear God,
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well-fill'd past;

A heritage, it seems to me,

Well worth a life to hold in fee.-Lowell.

1796. HERO. A modern

BUT dream not helm and harness
The sign of valour true;

Peace hath higher tests of manhood

Than battle ever knew.

Would'st know him now? Behold him,

The Cadmus of the blind, Giving the dumb lip language, The idiot clay a mind.

Walking his round of duty

Serenely day by day,

With the strong man's hand of labour

And childhood's heart of play.

True as the knights of story,
Sir Lancelot and his peers,
Brave in his calm endurance
As they in tilt of spears.
As waves in stillest waters,

As stars in noonday skies,
All that wakes to noble action
In his noon of calmness lies.

Wherever outraged nature

Asks word or action brave, Wherever struggles labour,

Wherever groans a slave,— Wherever rise the peoples,

Not while in martyr-pangs soul and flesh sever,
Died he-this hero new; hero for ever.

No pomp poetic crown'd, no forms enchain'd him,
No friends applauding watch'd, no foes arraign'd

him :

Death found him there, without grandeur or beauty,
Only an honest man doing his duty :

Death found-and touch'd with finger in flying:
Lo! he rose up complete-hero undying.

Now all men mourn for him, lovingly raise him
Up from his life obscure, chronicle, praise him;
Tell his last act, done midst peril appalling,
And the last word of cheer from his lips falling;
Follow in multitudes to his grave's portal ;
Leave him there, buried in honour immortal.

So many a hero walks unseen beside us,
Till comes the supreme stroke sent to divide us.

Then the Lord calls His own-like this man, even,
Carried, Elijah-like, fire-wing'd, to heaven.
D. M. Muloch Craik.

1798. HERO. Marks of the

WHAT makes a hero?-not success, not fame,
Inebriate merchants, and the loud acclaim
Of glutted avarice, -caps toss'd up in air,
Or
pen of journalist with flourish fair;
Bells peal'd, stars, ribbons, and a titular name—
These, though his rightful tribute, he can spare ;
His rightful tribute not his end or aim,

Or true reward; for never yet did these
Refresh the soul, or set the heart at ease.
What makes a hero?-an heroic mind,
Express'd in action, in endurance proved.

And if there be preeminence of right, Derived through pain well suffer'd, to the height Of rank heroic, 'tis to bear unmoved, Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea or wind,

Not the brute fury of barbarians blind,

But worse-ingratitude and poisonous darts Launch'd by the country he had served and loved : This, with a free, unclouded spirit pure, This, in the strength of silence to endure, A dignity to noble deeds imparts, Beyond the gauds and trappings of renown. This is the hero's compliment and crown; This miss'd, one struggle had been wanting stillOne glorious triumph of the heroic will, One self-approval in his heart of hearts.

Henry Taylor.

1799. HERO: the title is often basely won.

MARK by what wretched steps their glory grows;
From dirt and sea-weed as proud Venice rose :
In each how guilt and greatness equal ran,
And all that raised the hero sunk the man.-Pope.

1800. HEROES. Forgotten

WHERE are the heroes of the ages past?
Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty ones
Who flourish'd in the infancy of days?

All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fame
Exultant, mocking at the pride of man,
Sits grim Forgetfulness. The warrior's arm
Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame;
Hush'd in his stormy voice, and quench'd the blaze
Of his red eyeball. Yesterday his name
Was mighty on the earth. To-day-'tis what?
The meteor of the night of distant years,
That flash'd unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld,
Musing at midnight upon prophecies,
Who at her lonely lattice saw the gleam
Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly
Closed her pale lips, and lock'd the secret up
Safe in the charnel's treasures.-Kirke White.

1801. HEROES. God's

NOT on the gory field of fame

Their noble deeds were done; Not in the sound of Earth's acclaim Their fadeless crowns were won. Not from the palaces of Kings,

Nor Fortune's sunny clime,

Came the great souls, whose life-work flings
Lustre o'er Earth and Time.

For Truth with tireless zeal they sought;
In joyless paths they trod ;
Heedless of praise or blame they wrought,
And left the rest to God.
The lowliest sphere was not disdain'd:
Where love could soothe or save,
They went, by fearless faith sustain'd,
Nor knew their deeds were brave.

The foes with which they waged their strife
Were passion, self, and sin;
The victories that laurell'd life
Were fought and won within.
Not names in gold emblazon'd here,
And great and good confest,
In Heaven's immortal scroll appear
As noblest and as best.

On the morrow crouches Judas, with the silver in his hands;

Far in front the cross stands ready, and the crackling faggots burn,

While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe

return

To glean up the scatter'd ashes into History's golden

urn.

'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves. Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light

a crime.

Was the Mayflower launch'd by cowards, steer'd by men behind their time?

She met the hosts of sorrow with a look

That alter'd not beneath the frown they wore ; And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took Meekly her gentle rule, and frown'd no more. Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath, And calmly broke in twain The fiery shafts of pain, And rent the nets of passion from her path.

By that victorious hand despair was slain.
With love she vanquish'd hate, and overcame
Evil with good, in her Great Master's name.

Her glory is not of this shadowy state,
Glory that with the fleeting season dies;

WITHIN this lowly grave a conqueror lies,

And yet the monument proclaims it not,

Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought The emblems of a fame that never dies; Ivy and amaranth, in a graceful sheaf, Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf. A simple name alone,

To the great world unknown,

Is graven here, and wild-flowers, rising round,
Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground,
Lean lovingly against the humble stone.

Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart

No man of iron mould and bloody hands,
Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands
The passions that consumed his restless heart;
But one of tender spirit and delicate frame,
Gentlest, in mien and mind,

Of gentle womankind,
Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame :
One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made

Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May: Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shade

Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away.

Nor deem the hand that moulders here

Was raised in menace, realms were chill'd with fear,
And armies muster'd at the sign, as when
Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East-
Grey captains leading bands of veteran men
And fiery youths to be the vulture's feast.

Not thus were waged the mighty wars that gave
The victory to her who fills this grave:

Alone her task was wrought,

Alone the battle fought;

What joy was radiant in celestial eyes!

How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes

rung,

And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung. And He who, long before,

Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore,

The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet,
Smiled on the timid stranger from His seat;
He who returning, glorious, from the grave,
Dragg'd death, disarm'd, in chains, a crouching slave.

See, as I linger here, the sun grows low;

Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near.
Oh, gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go

Consoled, though sad, in hope and yet in fear.
Brief is the time, I know,

The warfare scarce begun;

Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won.
Still flows the fount whose waters strengthen'd thee,
The victors' names are yet too few to fill
Heaven's mighty roll; the glorious armoury,
That minister'd to thee, is

open

1805. HEROISM. Military

still.-Bryant.

To overcome in battle, and subdue
Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite
Manslaughter, shall be held the highest pitch
Of human glory, and for glory done
Of triumph, to be styled great conquerors,
Patrons of mankind, gods, and sons of gods;
Destroyers rightlier call'd, and plagues of men.
Milton.

1806. HERO-WORSHIP.

A LITTLE maiden read her books,
And only loved the more
Sir PHILIP SIDNEY every day,

Than even the day before.

And when her suitors came to woo,
She match'd them in her mind
With PHILIP SIDNEY, one and all,
But far they fell behind.

For this one lack'd the courtliness,
And this, the perfect grace,

And this, the learning rare and wide,
And this, the handsome face.

And so she sent them all away,

But only loved the more
Sir PHILIP SIDNEY every day,
Than she did the day before.

O maiden of the fancy bright,
If it could only be,

Sir PHILIP should himself o'erleap
For you the centuries three,

And come upon his doughty steed

A-riding to your gate,

And for your favour crave and sue,

And for your answer wait,

I ween you'd look him through and through,
But never bid him stay;

In favour of his fancied self
You'd send himself away.