Where should resound the brave man's fame,
Louder than bell or organ's tone?
In noblest song we'll give his name,
And place it there, aloft, alone.
Destruction is within a span—
Come to the rescue, thou brave man!
A count of noble race and worth,
Up gallops on his courser bold:
What in his hand is proffer'd forth?
A purse brimful of dazzling gold:
Two hundred pieces are his prize,
Who now to help the wretched flies!
Where's the brave man will strive to save?
Is it the count, my song ?-O no!
Although the generous count is brave,
A braver on this task must go :
Come forth, brave man, advance with speed,
Impending ruin speaks thy need.
Higher and higher swells the flood,
Louder and louder roars the wind,
Colder and chiller grows the blood:
Oh, where shall we a saviour find?
Pillar on pillar, arch and wall,
In quick succession crash and fall.
Halloo! halloo! oh, who will fly?
The count the tempting prize uprears;
They hear, they shudder, and they sigh;
But among thousands none appears.
In vain the tollman, child, and wife,
Above the tempest shriek for life.
But see! a humble peasant now
Starts forth, the noble deed to dare:
Noble and lofty is his brow,
Although his garb is coarse and bare;
He heard the boon proclaim'd anew,
And saw how near destruction drew.
And boldly in the name of God
He leapt into a fishing-bark,
And o'er the waves triumphant rode
Through whirlpool, storm, and billow dark;
But, ah! the boat is far too small
At once to bear, and save them all.
But thrice through gulfs he toil'd along,
That might the stoutest heart appal;
And thrice with manly sinews strong,
Row'd happily to save them all;
And scarcely were they safe and well,
When the last tottering ruin fell.
Who is the brave man ?-who is he?
Say on my song, his name unfold ;
And did he risk his life to be
The master of that glittering gold ?
Had the proud count ne'er show'd the boon,
Would he have risk'd his life as soon?
"Here!" cried the count, "bold-hearted friend,
Receive the prize now thine to share;
And nobly earn'd!" But list the end-
The count a lofty soul might bear,
But higher feelings swell'd the breast
Of the brave man, so meanly drest.
"My life," he said, "shall ne'er be sold
For sordid pelf;-content, though poor;
But to the tollman give your gold:
His all is lost, his lot is sore."
Thus firmly spoke he, inly cheer'd,
Then turn'd his back, and disappear'd.
The brave man's praise in song is told,
Like bell or organ's echoing tone;
When bravery is the theme, not gold,
But song rewards-nor song alone:
Thank God, who prompts the brave man's deed,
And crowns him with his heavenly meed!
Parr's Life Pills.
'Twas in the town of Lubeck,
A hundred years ago,
An old man walk'd into the church,
With beard as white as snow;
Yet were his cheeks not wrinkled,
Nor dim his eagle eye;
There's many a knight that steps the street
Might wonder, should he chance to meet
That man erect and high.
When silenced was the organ,
And hush'd the vespers loud,
The sacristan approach'd the sire,
And drew him from the crowd:
"There's something in thy visage,
On which I dare not look,
And when I rang the passing bell,
A tremor that I may not tell
My very vitals shook.
"Who art thou, awful stranger?
Our ancient annals say,
That twice two hundred years agɔ
Another pass'd this way,
Like thee in face and feature;
And, if the tale be true,
'Tis writ that in this very year
Again the stranger shall appear:
Art thou the Wandering Jew?"
"The Wandering Jew, thou dotard!"
The wondrous phantom cried;
"'Tis several centuries ago
Since that poor stripling died;
He would not use my nostrums,
See, shaveling, here they are!
These put to flight all human ills,
These conquer death,-unfailing pills;
And I'm the inventor, Parr!"
POEMS OF BON GAULTIER
THE village stile-and has it gone,
Supplanted by this niche of stone,
So formal and so new?
And worse, still worse, the elder bush,
Where sang the linnet and the thrush,
Say, has that vanish'd too?
Dear, ancient friend! it was to me,
So needful to the scenery,
I could have better spared
A better thing;-but be it so;
Change meets us wheresoe'er we go-
It fares as all have fared.
Old chronicler! to me it spoke
Like oracle from ancient oak,
Save only that its tone
(Unskill'd the future to forecast)
Upon the present or the past
Dwelt ever and anon.
'Twas throng'd with memories of old-
Yea, many a scene it could unfold
To truth and fancy dear:
For not the thorn upon the green
More frequent confidant had been,
To tales they love to hear.
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