The Illustrated London Reading Book. Various
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monuments: one, to the memory of the Hon. Sir Alexander Gordon, brother to the Earl of Aberdeen, who there terminated a short but glorious career, at the age of twenty-nine, and "fell in the blaze of his fame;" the other, to some brave officers of the German Legion, who likewise died under circumstances of peculiar distinction. There is also, on an enormous mound, a colossal lion of bronze, erected by the Belgians to the honour of the Prince of Orange, who was wounded at, or near, to the spot.
Against the walls of the church of the village of Waterloo are many beautiful marble tablets, with the most affecting inscriptions, records of men of various countries, who expired on that solemn and memorable occasion in supporting a common cause. Many of these brave men were buried in a cemetery at a short distance from the village.
THE TWO OWLS AND THE SPARROW.
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Two formal Owls together sat, Conferring thus in solemn chat: "How is the modern taste decay'd! Where's the respect to wisdom paid? Our worth the Grecian sages knew; They gave our sires the honour due: They weigh'd the dignity of fowls, And pry'd into the depth of Owls. Athens, the seat of earned fame, With gen'ral voice revered our name; On merit title was conferr'd, And all adored th' Athenian bird." "Brother, you reason well," replies The solemn mate, with half-shut eyes: "Right: Athens was the seat of learning, And truly wisdom is discerning. Besides, on Pallas' helm we sit, The type and ornament of wit: But now, alas! we're quite neglected, And a pert Sparrow's more respected." A Sparrow, who was lodged beside, O'erhears them sooth each other's pride. |
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| And thus he nimbly vents his heat: "Who meets a fool must find conceit. I grant you were at Athens graced, And on Minerva's helm were placed; But ev'ry bird that wings the sky, Except an Owl, can tell you why. From hence they taught their schools to know How false we judge by outward show; That we should never looks esteem, Since fools as wise as you might seem. Would you contempt and scorn avoid, Let your vain-glory be destroy'd: Humble your arrogance of thought, Pursue the ways by Nature taught: So shall you find delicious fare, And grateful farmers praise your care; So shall sleek mice your chase reward, And no keen cat find more regard." Gay. | |
THE BEETLE.
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See the beetle that crawls in your way, And runs to escape from your feet; His house is a hole in the clay, And the bright morning dew is his meat. But if you more closely behold This insect you think is so mean, You will find him all spangled with gold, And shining with crimson and green. Tho' the peacock's bright plumage we prize, As he spreads out his tail to the sun, The beetle we should not despise, Nor over him carelessly run. They both the same Maker declare— They both the same wisdom display, The same beauties in common they share— Both are equally happy and gay. And remember that while you would fear The beautiful peacock to kill, You would tread on the poor beetle here, And think you were doing no ill. But though 'tis so humble, be sure, As mangled and bleeding it lies, A pain as severe 'twill endure, As if 'twere a giant that dies. |
THE FOUNDING OF THE BELL.
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Hark! how the furnace pants and roars, Hark! how the molten metal pours, As, bursting from its iron doors, It glitters in the sun. Now through the ready mould it flows, Seething and hissing as it goes, And filling every crevice up, As the red vintage fills the cup— Hurra! the work is done! Unswathe him now. Take off each stay That binds him to his couch of clay, And let him struggle into day! Let chain and pulley run, With yielding crank and steady rope, Until he rise from rim to cope, In rounded beauty, ribb'd in strength, Without a flaw in all his length— Hurra! the work is done! The clapper on his giant side Shall ring no peal for blushing bride, For birth, or death, or new-year tide, Or festival begun! A nation's joy alone shall be The signal for his revelry; And for a nation's woes alone His melancholy tongue shall moan— Hurra! the work is done! Borne on the gale, deep-toned and clear, His long, loud summons shall we hear, When statesmen to their country dear Their mortal race have run; When mighty Monarchs yield their breath, And patriots sleep the sleep of death, Then shall he raise his voice of gloom, And peal a requiem o'er their tomb— Hurra! the work is done! Should foemen lift their haughty hand, And dare invade us where we stand, Fast by the altars of our land We'll gather every one; And he shall ring the loud alarm, To call the multitudes to arm, From distant field and forest brown, And teeming alleys of the town— Hurra! the work is done! And as the solemn boom they hear, Old men shall grasp the idle spear, Laid by to rust for many a year, And to the struggle run: Young men shall leave their toils or books, Or turn to swords their pruning-hooks; And maids have sweetest smiles for those Who battle with their country's foes— Hurra! the work is done! And when the cannon's iron throat Shall bear the news to dells remote, And trumpet blast resound the note— That victory is won; When down the wind the banner drops, And bonfires blaze on mountain tops, His sides shall glow with fierce delight, And ring glad peals from morn to night— Hurra! the work is done! But of such themes forbear to tell— May never War awake this bell To sound the tocsin or the knell— Hush'd be the alarum gun. Sheath'd be the sword! and may his voice But call the nations to rejoice That War his tatter'd flag has furl'd, And vanish'd from a wiser world— Hurra! the work is done! Still may he ring when struggles cease— Still may he ring for joy's increase, For progress in the arts of peace, And friendly trophies won; When rival nations join their hands, When plenty crowns the happy lands, When Knowledge gives new blessings birth, And Freedom reigns o'er all the earth— Hurra! the work is done! Mackay. |