Best Famous Unfailing Poems

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Written by Walt Whitman | To You WHOEVER you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams, I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands; Even now, your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you, Your true Soul and Body appear before me, They stand forth out of affairs—out of commerce, shops, law, science, work, forms, clothes, the house, medicine, print, buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying. Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem; I whisper with my lips close to your ear, I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you. O I have been dilatory and dumb; I should have made my way straight to you long ago; I should have blabb’d nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you. I will leave all, and come and make the hymns of you; None have understood you, but I understand you; None have done justice to you—you have not done justice to yourself; None but have found you imperfect—I only find no imperfection in you; None but would subordinate you—I only am he who will never consent to subordinate you; I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself. Painters have painted their swarming groups, and the centre figure of all; From the head of the centre figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color’d light; But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of gold-color’d light; From my hand, from the brain of every man and woman it streams, effulgently flowing forever. O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you! You have not known what you are—you have slumber’d upon yourself all your life; Your eye-lids have been the same as closed most of the time; What you have done returns already in mockeries; (Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries, what is their return?) The mockeries are not you; Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk; I pursue you where none else has pursued you; Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustom’d routine, if these conceal you from others, or from yourself, they do not conceal you from me; The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these balk others, they do not balk me, The pert apparel, the deform’d attitude, drunkenness, greed, premature death, all these I part aside. There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in you; There is no virtue, no beauty, in man or woman, but as good is in you; No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you; No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you. As for me, I give nothing to any one, except I give the like carefully to you; I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing the songs of the glory of you. Whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard! These shows of the east and west are tame, compared to you; These immense meadows—these interminable rivers—you are immense and interminable as they; These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of apparent dissolution—you are he or she who is master or mistress over them, Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain, passion, dissolution. The hopples fall from your ankles—you find an unfailing sufficiency; Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest, whatever you are promulges itself; Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing is scanted; Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are picks its way.

Written by Charlotte Bronte | Frances SHE will not sleep, for fear of dreams, But, rising, quits her restless bed, And walks where some beclouded beams Of moonlight through the hall are shed. Obedient to the goad of grief, Her steps, now fast, now lingering slow, In varying motion seek relief From the Eumenides of woe. Wringing her hands, at intervals­ But long as mute as phantom dim­ She glides along the dusky walls, Under the black oak rafters, grim. The close air of the grated tower Stifles a heart that scarce can beat, And, though so late and lone the hour, Forth pass her wandering, faltering feet; And on the pavement, spread before The long front of the mansion grey, Her steps imprint the night-frost hoar, Which pale on grass and granite lay. Not long she stayed where misty moon And shimmering stars could on her look, But through the garden arch-way, soon Her strange and gloomy path she took. Some firs, coeval with the tower, Their straight black boughs stretched o'er her head, Unseen, beneath this sable bower, Rustled her dress and rapid tread. There was an alcove in that shade, Screening a rustic-seat and stand; Weary she sat her down and laid Her hot brow on her burning hand. To solitude and to the night, Some words she now, in murmurs, said; And, trickling through her fingers white, Some tears of misery she shed. ' God help me, in my grievous need, God help me, in my inward pain; Which cannot ask for pity's meed, Which has no license to complain; Which must be borne, yet who can bear, Hours long, days long, a constant weight­ The yoke of absolute despair, A suffering wholly desolate ? Who can for ever crush the heart, Restrain its throbbing, curb its life ? Dissemble truth with ceaseless art, With outward calm, mask inward strife ?' She waited­as for some reply; The still and cloudy night gave none; Erelong, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh, Her heavy plaint again begun. ' Unloved­I love; unwept­I weep; Grief I restrain­hope I repress: Vain is this anguish­fixed and deep; Vainer, desires and dreams of bliss. My love awakes no love again, My tears collect, and fall unfelt; My sorrow touches none with pain, My humble hopes to nothing melt. For me the universe is dumb, Stone-deaf, and blank, and wholly blind; Life I must bound, existence sum In the strait limits of one mind; That mind my own. Oh ! narrow cell; Dark­imageless­a living tomb ! There must I sleep, there wake and dwell Content, with palsy, pain, and gloom. ' Again she paused; a moan of pain, A stifled sob, alone was heard; Long silence followed­then again, Her voice the stagnant midnight stirred. ' Must it be so ? Is this my fate ? Can I nor struggle, nor contend ? And am I doomed for years to wait, Watching death's lingering axe descend ? And when it falls, and when I die, What follows ? Vacant nothingness ? The blank of lost identity ? Erasure both of pain and bliss ? I've heard of heaven­I would believe; For if this earth indeed be all, Who longest lives may deepest grieve, Most blest, whom sorrows soonest call. Oh ! leaving disappointment here, Will man find hope on yonder coast ? Hope, which, on earth, shines never clear, And oft in clouds is wholly lost. Will he hope's source of light behold, Fruition's spring, where doubts expire, And drink, in waves of living gold, Contentment, full, for long desire ? Will he find bliss, which here he dreamed ? Rest, which was weariness on earth ? Knowledge, which, if o'er life it beamed, Served but to prove it void of worth ? Will he find love without lust's leaven, Love fearless, tearless, perfect, pure, To all with equal bounty given, In all, unfeigned, unfailing, sure ? Will he, from penal sufferings free, Released from shroud and wormy clod, All calm and glorious, rise and see Creation's Sire­Existence' God ? Then, glancing back on Time's brief woes, Will he behold them, fading, fly; Swept from Eternity's repose, Like sullying cloud, from pure blue sky ? If so­endure, my weary frame; And when thy anguish strikes too deep, And when all troubled burns life's flame, Think of the quiet, final sleep; Think of the glorious waking-hour, Which will not dawn on grief and tears, But on a ransomed spirit's power, Certain, and free from mortal fears. Seek now thy couch, and lie till morn, Then from thy chamber, calm, descend, With mind nor tossed, nor anguish-torn, But tranquil, fixed, to wait the end. And when thy opening eyes shall see Mementos, on the chamber wall, Of one who has forgotten thee, Shed not the tear of acrid gall. The tear which, welling from the heart, Burns where its drop corrosive falls, And makes each nerve, in torture, start, At feelings it too well recalls: When the sweet hope of being loved, Threw Eden sunshine on life's way; When every sense and feeling proved Expectancy of brightest day. When the hand trembled to receive A thrilling clasp, which seemed so near, And the heart ventured to believe, Another heart esteemed it dear. When words, half love, all tenderness, Were hourly heard, as hourly spoken, When the long, sunny days of bliss, Only by moonlight nights were broken. Till drop by drop, the cup of joy Filled full, with purple light, was glowing, And Faith, which watched it, sparkling high, Still never dreamt the overflowing. It fell not with a sudden crashing, It poured not out like open sluice; No, sparkling still, and redly flashing, Drained, drop by drop, the generous juice. I saw it sink, and strove to taste it, My eager lips approached the brim; The movement only seemed to waste it, It sank to dregs, all harsh and dim. These I have drank, and they for ever Have poisoned life and love for me; A draught from Sodom's lake could never More fiery, salt, and bitter, be. Oh ! Love was all a thin illusion; Joy, but the desert's flying stream; And, glancing back on long delusion, My memory grasps a hollow dream. Yet, whence that wondrous change of feeling, I never knew, and cannot learn, Nor why my lover's eye, congealing, Grew cold, and clouded, proud, and stern. Nor wherefore, friendship's forms forgetting, He careless left, and cool withdrew; Nor spoke of grief, nor fond regretting, Nor even one glance of comfort threw. And neither word nor token sending, Of kindness, since the parting day, His course, for distant regions bending, Went, self-contained and calm, away. Oh, bitter, blighting, keen sensation, Which will not weaken, cannot die, Hasten thy work of desolation, And let my tortured spirit fly ! Vain as the passing gale, my crying; Though lightning-struck, I must live on; I know, at heart, there is no dying Of love, and ruined hope, alone. Still strong, and young, and warm with vigour, Though scathed, I long shall greenly grow, And many a storm of wildest rigour Shall yet break o'er my shivered bough. Rebellious now to blank inertion, My unused strength demands a task; Travel, and toil, and full exertion, Are the last, only boon I ask. Whence, then, this vain and barren dreaming Of death, and dubious life to come ? I see a nearer beacon gleaming Over dejection's sea of gloom. The very wildness of my sorrow Tells me I yet have innate force; My track of life has been too narrow, Effort shall trace a broader course. The world is not in yonder tower, Earth is not prisoned in that room, 'Mid whose dark pannels, hour by hour, I've sat, the slave and prey of gloom. One feeling­turned to utter anguish, Is not my being's only aim; When, lorn and loveless, life will languish, But courage can revive the flame. He, when he left me, went a roving To sunny climes, beyond the sea; And I, the weight of woe removing, Am free and fetterless as he. New scenes, new language, skies less clouded, May once more wake the wish to live; Strange, foreign towns, astir, and crowded, New pictures to the mind may give. New forms and faces, passing ever, May hide the one I still retain, Defined, and fixed, and fading never, Stamped deep on vision, heart, and brain. And we might meet­time may have changed him; Chance may reveal the mystery, The secret influence which estranged him; Love may restore him yet to me. False thought­false hope­in scorn be banished ! I am not loved­nor loved have been; Recall not, then, the dreams scarce vanished, Traitors ! mislead me not again ! To words like yours I bid defiance, 'Tis such my mental wreck have made; Of God alone, and self-reliance, I ask for solace­hope for aid. Morn comes­and ere meridian glory O'er these, my natal woods, shall smile, Both lonely wood and mansion hoary I'll leave behind, full many a mile.

Written by Dylan Thomas | Before I Knocked Before I knocked and flesh let enter, With liquid hands tapped on the womb, I who was as shapeless as the water That shaped the Jordan near my home Was brother to Mnetha's daughter And sister to the fathering worm. I who was deaf to spring and summer, Who knew not sun nor moon by name, Felt thud beneath my flesh's armour, As yet was in a molten form The leaden stars, the rainy hammer Swung by my father from his dome. I knew the message of the winter, The darted hail, the childish snow, And the wind was my sister suitor; Wind in me leaped, the hellborn dew; My veins flowed with the Eastern weather; Ungotten I knew night and day. As yet ungotten, I did suffer; The rack of dreams my lily bones Did twist into a living cipher, And flesh was snipped to cross the lines Of gallow crosses on the liver And brambles in the wringing brains. My throat knew thirst before the structure Of skin and vein around the well Where words and water make a mixture Unfailing till the blood runs foul; My heart knew love, my belly hunger; I smelt the maggot in my stool. And time cast forth my mortal creature To drift or drown upon the seas Acquainted with the salt adventure Of tides that never touch the shores. I who was rich was made the richer By sipping at the vine of days. I, born of flesh and ghost, was neither A ghost nor man, but mortal ghost. And I was struck down by death's feather. I was a mortal to the last Long breath that carried to my father The message of his dying christ. You who bow down at cross and altar, Remember me and pity Him Who took my flesh and bone for armour And doublecrossed my mother's womb.

Written by Lewis Carroll | Fit the Fifth ( Hunting of the Snark ) The Beaver's Lesson They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; They pursued it with forks and hope; They threatened its life with a railway-share; They charmed it with smiles and soap. Then the Butcher contrived an ingenious plan For making a separate sally; And fixed on a spot unfrequented by man, A dismal and desolate valley. But the very same plan to the Beaver occurred: It had chosen the very same place: Yet neither betrayed, by a sign or a word, The disgust that appeared in his face. Each thought he was thinking of nothing but "Snark" And the glorious work of the day; And each tried to pretend that he did not remark That the other was going that way. But the valley grew narrow and narrower still, And the evening got darker and colder, Till (merely from nervousness, not from goodwill) They marched along shoulder to shoulder. Then a scream, shrill and high, rent the shuddering sky, And they knew that some danger was near: The Beaver turned pale to the tip of its tail, And even the Butcher felt *****. He thought of his childhood, left far far behind-- That blissful and innocent state-- The sound so exactly recalled to his mind A pencil that squeaks on a slate! "'Tis the voice of the Jubjub!" he suddenly cried. (This man, that they used to call "Dunce. ") "As the Bellman would tell you," he added with pride, "I have uttered that sentiment once. "'Tis the note of the Jubjub! Keep count, I entreat; You will find I have told it you twice. 'Tis the song of the Jubjub! The proof is complete, If only I've stated it thrice. " The Beaver had counted with scrupulous care, Attending to every word: But it fairly lost heart, and outgrabe in despair, When the third repetition occurred. It felt that, in spite of all possible pains, It had somehow contrived to lose count, And the only thing now was to rack its poor brains By reckoning up the amount. "Two added to one--if that could but be done," It said, "with one's fingers and thumbs!" Recollecting with tears how, in earlier years, It had taken no pains with its sums. "The thing can be done," said the Butcher, "I think. The thing must be done, I am sure. The thing shall be done! Bring me paper and ink, The best there is time to procure. " The Beaver brought paper,portfolio, pens, And ink in unfailing supplies: While strange creepy creatures came out of their dens, And watched them with wondering eyes. So engrossed was the Butcher, he heeded them not, As he wrote with a pen in each hand, And explained all the while in a popular style Which the Beaver could well understand. "Taking Three as the subject to reason about-- A convenient number to state-- We add Seven, and Ten, and then multiply out By One Thousand diminished by Eight. "The result we proceed to divide, as you see, By Nine Hundred and Ninety Two: Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must be Exactly and perfectly true. "The method employed I would gladly explain, While I have it so clear in my head, If I had but the time and you had but the brain-- But much yet remains to be said. "In one moment I've seen what has hitherto been Enveloped in absolute mystery, And without extra charge I will give you at large A Lesson in Natural History. " In his genial way he proceeded to say (Forgetting all laws of propriety, And that giving instruction, without introduction, Would have caused quite a thrill in Society), "As to temper the Jubjub's a desperate bird, Since it lives in perpetual passion: Its taste in costume is entirely absurd-- It is ages ahead of the fashion: "But it knows any friend it has met once before: It never will look at a bride: And in charity-meetings it stands at the door, And collects--though it does not subscribe. " Its flavor when cooked is more exquisite far Than mutton, or oysters, or eggs: (Some think it keeps best in an ivory jar, And some, in mahogany kegs) "You boil it in sawdust: you salt it in glue: You condense it with locusts and tape: Still keeping one principal object in view-- To preserve its symmetrical shape. " The Butcher would gladly have talked till next day, But he felt that the lesson must end, And he wept with delight in attempting to say He considered the Beaver his friend. While the Beaver confessed, with affectionate looks More eloquent even than tears, It had learned in ten minutes far more than all books Would have taught it in seventy years. They returned hand-in-hand, and the Bellman, unmanned (For a moment) with noble emotion, Said "This amply repays all the wearisome days We have spent on the billowy ocean!" Such friends, as the Beaver and Butcher became, Have seldom if ever been known; In winter or summer, 'twas always the same-- You could never meet either alone. And when quarrels arose--as one frequently finds Quarrels will, spite of every endeavor-- The song of the Jubjub recurred to their minds, And cemented their friendship for ever!

Written by Phillis Wheatley | To the Honourable T. H. Esq; on the Death of his Daughter While deep you mourn beneath the cypress-shade The hand of Death, and your dear daughter laid In dust, whose absence gives your tears to flow, And racks your bosom with incessant woe, Let Recollection take a tender part, Assuage the raging tortures of your heart, Still the wild tempest of tumultuous grief, And pour the heav'nly nectar of relief: Suspend the sigh, dear Sir, and check the groan, Divinely bright your daughter's Virtues shone: How free from scornful pride her gentle mind, Which ne'er its aid to indigence declin'd! Expanding free, it sought the means to prove Unfailing charity, unbounded love! She unreluctant flies to see no more Her dear-lov'd parents on earth's dusky shore: Impatient heav'n's resplendent goal to gain, She with swift progress cuts the azure plain, Where grief subsides, where changes are no more, And life's tumultuous billows cease to roar; She leaves her earthly mansion for the skies, Where new creations feast her wond'ring eyes. To heav'n's high mandate cheerfully resign'd She mounts, and leaves the rolling globe behind; She, who late wish'd that Leonard might return, Has ceas'd to languish, and forgot to mourn; To the same high empyreal mansions come, She joins her spouse, and smiles upon the tomb: And thus I hear her from the realms above: "Lo! this the kingdom of celestial love! "Could ye, fond parents, see our present bliss, "How soon would you each sigh, each fear dismiss? "Amidst unutter'd pleasures whilst I play "In the fair sunshine of celestial day, "As far as grief affects an happy soul "So far doth grief my better mind controul, "To see on earth my aged parents mourn, "And secret wish for T-----! to return: "Let brighter scenes your ev'ning-hours employ: "Converse with heav'n, and taste the promis'd joy"

Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Mans Injustice Towards Providence A Thriving Merchant, who no Loss sustained, In little time a mighty Fortune gain'd. No Pyrate seiz'd his still returning Freight; Nor foundring Vessel sunk with its own Weight: No Ruin enter'd through dissever'd Planks; No Wreck at Sea, nor in the Publick Banks. Aloft he sails, above the Reach of Chance, And do's in Pride, as fast as Wealth, advance. His Wife too, had her Town and Country-Seat, And rich in Purse, concludes her Person Great. A Dutchess wears not so much Gold and Lace; Then 'tis with Her an undisputed Case, The finest Petticoat must take the Place. Her Rooms, anew at ev'ry Christ'ning drest, Put down the Court, and vex the City-Guest. Grinning Malottos in true Ermin stare; The best Japan, and clearest China Ware Are but as common Delft and English Laquar there. No Luxury's by either unenjoy'd, Or cost withheld, tho' awkardly employ'd. How comes this Wealth? A Country Friend demands, Who scarce cou'd live on Product of his Lands. How is it that, when Trading is so bad That some are Broke, and some with Fears run Mad, You can in better State yourself maintain, And your Effects still unimpair'd remain! My Industry, he cries, is all the Cause; Sometimes I interlope, and slight the Laws; I wiser Measures, than my Neighbors, take, And better speed, who better Bargains make. I knew, the Smyrna–Fleet wou'd fall a Prey, And therefore sent no Vessel out that way: My busy Factors prudently I chuse, And in streight Bonds their Friends and Kindred noose: At Home, I to the Publick Sums advance, Whilst, under-hand in Fee with hostile France, I care not for your Tourvills, or Du-Barts, No more than for the Rocks, and Shelves in Charts: My own sufficiency creates my Gain, Rais'd, and secur'd by this unfailing Brain. This idle Vaunt had scarcely past his Lips, When Tydings came, his ill-provided Ships Some thro' the want of Skill, and some of Care, Were lost, or back return'd without their Fare. From bad to worse, each Day his State declin'd, 'Till leaving Town, and Wife, and Debts behind, To his Acquaintance at the Rural Seat He Sculks, and humbly sues for a Retreat. Whence comes this Change, has Wisdom left that Head, (His Friend demands) where such right Schemes were bred? What Phrenzy, what Delirium mars the Scull, Which fill'd the Chests, and was it self so full? Here interrupting, sadly he Reply'd, In Me's no Change, but Fate must all Things guide; To Providence I attribute my Loss. Vain-glorious Man do's thus the Praise engross, When Prosp'rous Days around him spread their Beams: But, if revolv'd to opposite Extreams, Still his own Sence he fondly will prefer, And Providence, not He, in his Affairs must Err!

Written by Philip Larkin | Love Songs In Age She kept her songs, they kept so little space, The covers pleased her: One bleached from lying in a sunny place, One marked in circles by a vase of water, One mended, when a tidy fit had seized her, And coloured, by her daughter - So they had waited, till, in widowhood She found them, looking for something else, and stood Relearning how each frank submissive chord Had ushered in Word after sprawling hyphenated word, And the unfailing sense of being young Spread out like a spring-woken tree, wherein That hidden freshness sung, That certainty of time laid up in store As when she played them first. But, even more, The glare of that much-mentionned brilliance, love, Broke out, to show Its bright incipience sailing above, Still promising to solve, and satisfy, And set unchangeably in order. So To pile them back, to cry, Was hard, without lamely admitting how It had not done so then, and could not now.

Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Bewick Finzer Time was when his half million drew The breath of six per cent; But soon the worm of what-was-not Fed hard on his content; And something crumbled in his brain When his half million went. Time passed, and filled along with his The place of many more; Time came, and hardly one of us Had credence to restore, From what appeared one day, the man Whom we had known before. The broken voice, the withered neck, The coat worn out with care, The cleanliness of indigence, The brilliance of despair, The fond imponderable dreams Of affluence,--all were there. Poor Finzer, with his dreams and schemes, Fares hard now in the race, With heart and eye that have a task When he looks in the eye Of one who might so easily Have been in Finzer's place. He comes unfailing for the loan We give and then forget; He comes, and probably for years Will he be coming yet,-- Familiar as an old mistake, And futile as regret.

Written by Dorothy Parker | The Small Hours No more my little song comes back; And now of nights I lay My head on down, to watch the black And wait the unfailing gray. Oh, sad are winter nights, and slow; And sad's a song that's dumb; And sad it is to lie and know Another dawn will come.

Written by Friedrich von Schiller | The Hostage The tyrant Dionys to seek, Stern Moerus with his poniard crept; The watchful guard upon him swept; The grim king marked his changeless cheek: "What wouldst thou with thy poniard? Speak!" "The city from the tyrant free!" "The death-cross shall thy guerdon be. " "I am prepared for death, nor pray," Replied that haughty man, "I to live; Enough, if thou one grace wilt give For three brief suns the death delay To wed my sister--leagues away; I boast one friend whose life for mine, If I should fail the cross, is thine. " The tyrant mused,--and smiled,--and said With gloomy craft, "So let it be; Three days I will vouchsafe to thee. But mark--if, when the time be sped, Thou fail'st--thy surety dies instead. His life shall buy thine own release; Thy guilt atoned, my wrath shall cease. " He sought his friend--"The king's decree Ordains my life the cross upon Shall pay the deed I would have done; Yet grants three days' delay to me, My sister's marriage-rites to see; If thou, the hostage, wilt remain Till I--set free--return again!" His friend embraced--No word he said, But silent to the tyrant strode-- The other went upon his road. Ere the third sun in heaven was red, The rite was o'er, the sister wed; And back, with anxious heart unquailing, He hastes to hold the pledge unfailing. Down the great rains unending bore, Down from the hills the torrents rushed, In one broad stream the brooklets gushed. The wanderer halts beside the shore, The bridge was swept the tides before-- The shattered arches o'er and under Went the tumultuous waves in thunder. Dismayed he takes his idle stand-- Dismayed, he strays and shouts around; His voice awakes no answering sound. No boat will leave the sheltering strand, To bear him to the wished-for land; No boatman will Death's pilot be; The wild stream gathers to a sea! Sunk by the banks, awhile he weeps, Then raised his arms to Jove, and cried, "Stay thou, oh stay the maddening tide; Midway behold the swift sun sweeps, And, ere he sinks adown the deeps, If I should fail, his beams will see My friend's last anguish--slain for me!" More fierce it runs, more broad it flows, And wave on wave succeeds and dies And hour on hour remorseless flies; Despair at last to daring grows-- Amidst the flood his form he throws; With vigorous arms the roaring waves Cleaves--and a God that pities, saves. He wins the bank--he scours the strand, He thanks the God in breathless prayer; When from the forest's gloomy lair, With ragged club in ruthless hand, And breathing murder--rushed the band That find, in woods, their savage den, And savage prey in wandering men. "What," cried he, pale with generous fear; "What think to gain ye by the strife? All I bear with me is my life-- I take it to the king!"--and here He snatched the club from him most near: And thrice he smote, and thrice his blows Dealt death--before him fly the foes! The sun is glowing as a brand; And faint before the parching heat, The strength forsakes the feeble feet: "Thou hast saved me from the robbers' hand, Through wild floods given the blessed land; And shall the weak limbs fail me now? And he!--Divine one, nerve me, thou!" Hark! like some gracious murmur by, Babbles low music, silver-clear-- The wanderer holds his breath to hear; And from the rock, before his eye, Laughs forth the spring delightedly; Now the sweet waves he bends him o'er, And the sweet waves his strength restore. Through the green boughs the sun gleams dying, O'er fields that drink the rosy beam, The trees' huge shadows giant seem. Two strangers on the road are hieing; And as they fleet beside him flying, These muttered words his ear dismay: "Now--now the cross has claimed its prey!" Despair his winged path pursues, The anxious terrors hound him on-- There, reddening in the evening sun, From far, the domes of Syracuse!-- When towards him comes Philostratus (His leal and trusty herdsman he), And to the master bends his knee. "Back--thou canst aid thy friend no more, The niggard time already flown-- His life is forfeit--save thine own! Hour after hour in hope he bore, Nor might his soul its faith give o'er; Nor could the tyrant's scorn deriding, Steal from that faith one thought confiding!" "Too late! what horror hast thou spoken! Vain life, since it cannot requite him! But death with me can yet unite him; No boast the tyrant's scorn shall make-- How friend to friend can faith forsake. But from the double death shall know, That truth and love yet live below!" The sun sinks down--the gate's in view, The cross looms dismal on the ground-- The eager crowd gape murmuring round. His friend is bound the cross unto. . . . Crowd--guards--all bursts he breathless through: "Me! Doomsman, me!" he shouts, "alone! His life is rescued--lo, mine own!" Amazement seized the circling ring! Linked in each other's arms the pair-- Weeping for joy--yet anguish there! Moist every eye that gazed;--they bring The wondrous tidings to the king-- His breast man's heart at last hath known, And the friends stand before his throne. Long silent, he, and wondering long, Gazed on the pair--"In peace depart, Victors, ye have subdued my heart! Truth is no dream!--its power is strong. Give grace to him who owns his wrong! 'Tis mine your suppliant now to be, Ah, let the band of love--be three!"