Pompeii from its burial upsprings—
Paved streets with pillared temples on each side,
Baths, houses, paintings, monuments of kings.
But the arched gate whereat the sentry died,
The rusted spear, and helmet with no crest,
Are better far to see than all the rest.
O heart, whatever lot to thee God gives,
Be strong, and swerve not from a blameless way;
Dishonor hurts the soul that ever lives,
Death hurts the body that is kin with clay.
Though Duty's face is stern, her path is best:
They sweetly sleep who die upon her breast.
THE FRENCH MARSHAL.
Macmahon up the street of Paris came,
In triumph from Magenta; every one
Had heard and praised the fearless marshal's name,
And gloried in the deeds that he had done.
Crowds packed the walks, and at each pane of glass
A face was set to see the hero pass.
Grand music lifted in the morning air
Its eloquent voice; loud-mouthed bells were rung;
Guns boomed till echoes welcomed everywhere;
On buildings and in streets the French flag hung,
And, of a breeze, like fortune, made the toy,
Thrilled every heart with patriotic joy.
But while the marshal up the street made way,
There came a little girl clothed all in white,
Bringing in happy hands a large bouquet;
Her flower-sweet face seemed fragrant with delight.
Well pleased, the soldier, dark and fierce at need,
Raised up the child before him on his steed.
