Or some round belly firm and fat, Squeezed tight in tether labour-donned, Makes mirth and jest to chuckle at-- Old hero quaint and cheveroned! But do not mock and jeer, my lad. Salute him, rather, and, believe, Achilles he, of Iliad That Homer's self could not conceive. Respect these men with battle signs That twenty skies have painted brown; Their scars that lengthen out the lines Of wrinkles age has written down; Their skin whose colour deep and dun, Bared to the fronts of many foes, Tells us of Egypt's burning sun; Their locks that tell of Russia's snows. And if they shake, no longer strong? Ah! Beresina's wind was cold. And if they limp? The way was long, From Cairo unto Vilna told. If they be stiff? They'd but a flag For sheet to hold their bodies warm. And if a sleeve be loose, poor rag? 'T is that a bullet tore an arm. Mock not these veteran shapes bizarre, At whom the urchin laughs and gapes. They were the day, of which we are The evening, and the night, perhaps,-- Remembering if we forget-- Red lancer, grenadier in blue, With faces to the Column set, As to their only altar true. There, proud of pain each scar denotes, And of long miseries gone by, They feel beneath their shabby coats The heart of France beat mightily. And so our smiles are steeped in tears, Seeing this holy carnival, This picture wan that reappears, Like morning after midnight's ball. And, cleaving heaven its own to claim, Wide the Grand Army's eagle spreads Its golden wings, like glory's flame, Above their dear and hallowed heads. SEA-GLOOM The sea-gulls restless gleam and glance, The mad white coursers cleave the length Of ocean as they rear and prance And toss their manes in stormy strength. The day is ending. Raindrops choke The sunset furnaces. The gloom Brings the great steamboat spitting smoke, And beating down its long black plume. And I, more wan than heaven wide, For land of soot and fog am bound, For land of smoke and suicide-- And right good weather have I found! How eagerly I now would pierce The gulf that groweth wild and hoar! The vessel rocks. The waves are fierce. The salt wind freshens more and more. Ah! bitter is my soul's unrest. The very ocean sighing heaves In pity its unhopeful breast, Like some good friend that knows and grieves. Let be--lost love's despair supreme! Let be--illusions fair that rose And fell from pedestals of dream! One leap! The dark wet ridges close. Away! ye sufferings gone by, That evermore returning brood, And press the wounds that sleeping lie, To make them weep afresh their blood. Away! regret, whose crimson heart Hath seven swords. Yea, One, maybe, Doth know the anguish and the smart-- Mother of Seven Sorrows, She! Each ghostly grief sinks down the vast, And struggles with the waves that throb To close about it, and at last Drown it forever with a sob. Soul's ballast, treasures of life's hand, Sink! and we'll wreck together down. Pale on the pillow of the sand I'll rest me well at evening brown.