Is Man, to boast him of his zephyr's breath,
Man, whose whole race of life is on the verge of death!
He,—He alone, who trod
The waters as their God,
And from their dark embrace rescued the sinking form,
Can, when the whelming surges roll,
Draw with pierced hand, the unbodied soul
To that Eternal Ark, serene above the storm.
LAKE THRASYMENE.
Sleep on, in shadowy rest, bold, beauteous lake!—
Sleep calmly on, as if thou ne'er hadst drank
The richest blood of Carthage and of Rome.—
Dream on beneath Cortona's sheltering hills,
And lend thy freshness to the olive groves
Which bending kiss thy brow,—as if thy care
To nurse the plant of peace, might deftly hide
From nature's all-pervading eye, the stain
Of thy blood-guiltiness.—But she who rests
Her tablet on the wing of time, and flies
With him o'er every region of the earth,
Hath written of thee with her diamond pen,
And told thy secret to each passing age.—
—Shrank not thy placid waters from the plunge
Of Hannibal's plumed helmet, when he sought
To slake his battle-thirst? He heeded not
The awful redness of thy breast,—but drank
Free, as he pour'd that day, the priceless blood
Of shuddering Italy.—Rememberest thou
