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N the deck stood Columbus; the ocean's expanse, Untried and unlimited, swept by his glance. "Back to Spain !" cry his men; "Put the vessel about! We venture no further through danger and doubt."Three days, and I give you a world!" he replied;
"Bear up, my brave comrades;-three days shall decide."
He sails, but no token of land is in sight;
He sails, but the day shows no more than the night;
On, onward he sails, while in vain o'er the lee
The lead is plunged down through a fathomless sea.
The pilot, in silence, leans mournfully o'er
"Columbus! 'tis day, and the darkness is o'er."
'Day! and what dost thou see?"—"Sky and ocean. No more!"
The second day's past, and Columbus is sleeping,
But, hush! he is dreaming!-A veil on the main,
And now, on his dreaming eye,--rapturous sight!--
O, vision of glory! how dazzling it seems!
How glistens the verdure! how sparkle the streams!
But, lo! his dream changes;--a vision less bright
Again the dream changes. Columbus looks forth,
They have conquered! The People, with grateful acclaim,
In his patriot heart and republican mind.
O, type of true manhood! What sceptre or crown
In freedom's behalf, sets his mark on the age;
"Land! land!" cry the sailors; "land! land!"—he awakes,
He runs, yes! behold it!-it blesseth his sight,
The land! O, dear spectacle! transport! delight!
ROME AND CARTHAGE.
O, generous sobs, which he cannot restrain !
In exchange for a world, what are honors and gains?
ROME AND CARTHAGE.-VICTOR HUGO.
OME and Carthage!-behold them drawing near for the struggle that is to shake the world! Carthage, the metropolis of Africa, is the mistress of oceans, of kingdoms, and of nations; a magnificent city, burthened with opulence, radiant with the strange arts and trophies of the East. She is at the acme of her civilization. She can mount no higher. Any change now must be a decline. Rome is comparatively poor. She has seized all within her grasp, but rather from the lust of conquest than to fill her own coffers. She is demi-barbarous, and has her education and her fortune both to make. All is before her,-nothing behind. For a time these two nations exist in view of each other. The one reposes in the noontide of her splendor; the other waxes strong in the shade. But, little by little, air and space are wanting to each, for her development. Rome begins to perplex Carthage, and Carthage is an eyesore to Rome. Seated on opposite banks of the Mediterranean, the two cities look each other in the face. The sea no longer keeps them apart. Europe and Africa weigh upon each other. Like two clouds surcharged with electricity, they impend. With their contact must come the thundershock.
The catastrophe of this stupendous drama is at hand. What actors are met! Two Races,-that of merchants and mariners, that of laborers and soldiers; two Nations,--the one dominant by gold, the other by steel; two Republics, the one theocratic, the other aristocratic. Rome and Carthage! Rome with her army, Carthage with her fleet; Carthage, old, rich, and crafty,Rome, young, poor, and robust; the past, and the future; the spirit of discovery, and the spirit of conquest; the genius of
THE EMPTY SLEEVE.
commerce, the demon of war; the East and the South on one side, the West and the North on the other; in short, two worlds, -the civilization of Africa, and the civilization of Europe. They measure each other from head to foot. They gather all their forces. Gradually the war kindles. The world takes fire. These colossal powers are locked in deadly strife. Carthage has crossed the Alps; Rome, the seas. The two Nations, personified in two men, Hannibal and Scipio, close with each other, wrestle, and grow infuriate. The duel is desperate. It is a struggle for life. Rome wavers. She utters that cry of anguish-Hannibal at the gates! But she rallies,-collects all her strength for one last, appalling effort,--throws herself upon Carthage, and sweeps her from the face of the earth!
THE EMPTY SLEEVE.
Y the moon's pale light, to a gazing throng,
Till this very hour, who would ever believe,
It tells in a silent tone to all,
Of a country's need and a country's call,
It tells of a battle-field of gore,
Of the sabre's clash, of the cannon's roar,
ODE ON THE PASSIONS.
Till this very hour, would you ever believe,
Though it points to myriad wounds and scars,
Each place of the rag with the rattlesnake ;
One proud hurrah for the empty sleeve,
ODE ON THE PASSIONS.-WILLIAM COLLINS.
WHEN Music, Heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid;
Even at the sound himself had made.
Next, Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,