OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

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GIFTS.

  “O World-God, give me Wealth!” the Egyptian cried. 
  His prayer was granted.  High as heaven behold
  Palace and Pyramid; the brimming tide
  Of lavish Nile washed all his land with gold. 
  Armies of slaves toiled ant-wise at his feet,
  World-circling traffic roared through mart and street,
  His priests were gods, his spice-balmed kings enshrined
  Set death at naught in rock-ribbed charnels deep. 
  Seek Pharaoh’s race to-day, and ye shall find
  Rust and the moth, silence and dusty sleep.

  “O World-God, give me Beauty!” cried the Greek. 
  His prayer was granted.  All the earth became
  Plastic and vocal to his sense; each peak,
  Each grove, each stream, quick with Promethean flame,
  Peopled the world with imaged grace and light. 
  The lyre was his, and his the breathing might
  Of the immortal marble, his the play
  Of diamond-pointed thought and golden tongue. 
  Go seek the sunshine race.  Ye find to-day
  A broken column and a lute unstrung.

  “O World-God, give me Power!” the Roman cried. 
  His prayer was granted.  The vast world was chained
  A captive to the chariot of his pride,
  The blood of myriad provinces was drained
  To feed that fierce, insatiable red heart—­
  Invulnerably bulwarked every part
  With serried legions and with close-meshed Code. 
  Within, the burrowing worm had gnawed its home: 
  A roofless ruin stands where once abode
  The imperial race of everlasting Rome.

  “O God-head, give me Truth!” the Hebrew cried. 
  His prayer was granted.  He became the slave
  Of the Idea, a pilgrim far and wide,
  Cursed, hated, spurned, and scourged with none to save. 
  The Pharaohs knew him, and when Greece beheld,
  His wisdom wore the hoary crown of Eld. 
  Beauty he hath forsworn, and wealth and power. 
  Seek him to-day, and find in every land. 
  No fire consumes him, neither floods devour;
  Immortal through the lamp within his hand.

EMMA LAZARUS.

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ENGLAND.

FROM “THE TIMEPIECE”:  “THE TASK,” BK.  II.

  England, with all thy faults, I love thee still,—­
  My country! and, while yet a nook is left
  Where English minds and manners may be found,
  Shall be constrained to love thee.  Though thy clime
  Be fickle, and thy year most part deformed
  With dripping rains, or withered by a frost,
  I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,
  And fields without a flower, for warmer France
  With all her vines; nor for Ausonia’s groves
  Of golden fruitage and her myrtle bowers. 
  To shake thy senate, and from height sublime