The Worlds Best Poetry, Volume 8 | Page 8

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.
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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.
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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.
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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 rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blasts that tear the skies Serve but to root thy native oak. _Rule, Britannia!_ etc.
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame, And work their woe--but thy renown. _Rule, Britannia!_ etc.
To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles thine. _Rule, Britannia!_ etc.
The Muses, still with Freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair; Blest Isle! with matchless beauty crowned, And manly hearts to guard the fair. _Rule, Britannia, rule the leaves! For Britons never will