The Worlds Best Poetry, Volume 8 | Page 8

to know? The shuddering
tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own,
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, And his long nights of revelry
and ease; The naked negro, planting at the line, Boasts of his golden
sands and palmy wine, Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And
thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Such is the patriot's boast
where'er we roam, His first, best country, ever is at home. And yet,
perhaps, if countries we compare, And estimate the blessings which
they share, Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal
portion dealt to all mankind, As different good, by art or nature given,
To different nations, makes their blessings even.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
* * * * *

GIFTS.
"O World-God, give me Wealth!" the Egyptian cried. His prayer was
granted. High as heaven behold Palace and Pyramid; the brimming tide
Of lavish Nile washed all his land with gold. Armies of slaves toiled
ant-wise at his feet, World-circling traffic roared through mart and
street, His priests were gods, his spice-balmed kings enshrined Set
death at naught in rock-ribbed charnels deep. Seek Pharaoh's race
to-day, and ye shall find Rust and the moth, silence and dusty sleep.
"O World-God, give me Beauty!" cried the Greek. His prayer was
granted. All the earth became Plastic and vocal to his sense; each peak,
Each grove, each stream, quick with Promethean flame, Peopled the
world with imaged grace and light. The lyre was his, and his the
breathing might Of the immortal marble, his the play Of
diamond-pointed thought and golden tongue. Go seek the sunshine race.
Ye find to-day A broken column and a lute unstrung.
"O World-God, give me Power!" the Roman cried. His prayer was
granted. The vast world was chained A captive to the chariot of his
pride, The blood of myriad provinces was drained To feed that fierce,
insatiable red heart-- Invulnerably bulwarked every part With serried
legions and with close-meshed Code. Within, the burrowing worm had
gnawed its home: A roofless ruin stands where once abode The
imperial race of everlasting Rome.
"O God-head, give me Truth!" the Hebrew cried. His prayer was
granted. He became the slave Of the Idea, a pilgrim far and wide,
Cursed, hated, spurned, and scourged with none to save. The Pharaohs
knew him, and when Greece beheld, His wisdom wore the hoary crown
of Eld. Beauty he hath forsworn, and wealth and power. Seek him
to-day, and find in every land. No fire consumes him, neither floods
devour; Immortal through the lamp within his hand.
EMMA LAZARUS.
* * * * *

ENGLAND.
FROM "THE TIMEPIECE": "THE TASK," BK. II.
England, with all thy faults, I love thee still,-- My country! and, while
yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found,
Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clime Be fickle, and thy

year most part deformed With dripping rains, or withered by a frost, I
would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, And fields without a flower,
for warmer France With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves Of
golden fruitage and her myrtle bowers. To shake thy senate, and from
height sublime Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire Upon thy foes,
was never meant my task: But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake Thy
joys and sorrows with as true a heart As any thunderer there. And I can
feel Thy follies too; and with a just disdain Frown at effeminates whose
very looks Reflect dishonor on the land I love. How, in the name of
soldiership and sense, Should England prosper, when such things, as
smooth And tender as a girl, all essenced o'er With odors, and as
profligate as sweet, Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, And love
when they should fight,--when such as these Presume to lay their hand
upon the ark Of her magnificent and awful cause? Time was when it
was praise and boast enough In every clime, and travel where we might,
That we were born her children. Praise enough To fill the ambition of a
private man, That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, And
Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own.
WILLIAM COWPER.
* * * * *

RULE, BRITANNIA.
FROM "ALFRED," ACT II. SC. 5.
When Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure
main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sung the
strain: _Rule, Britannia, rule the waves! For Britons never will be
slaves._
The nations not so blest as thee Must in their turns to tyrants fall;
Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free, The dread and envy of them
all. _Rule, Britannia!_ etc.
Still more majestic shalt thou