POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2717, 23 December 1882, Page 3

POETRY.

TO VIRGIL. [Written at the request of the Mantuans for the Nineteenth Centenary of Virgil's death.] Soman Virgil, thou that singest Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire, Ilion falling, Borne arising, wars, and filial faith, and Dido's pyre ; Landscape-lover, lord of language more than he that sang, the Works and Days, All the chosen coin of fancy flashing out from many a golden phrase ; Thou that singest -wheat and -woodland tilth and vineyard, hive, and horse and herd ; All the charm of all the Muses often flowering in a lonely word; Poet of the happy Tityrus piping underneath his beechen bowers; Poet of the poet-satyr whom the laughing shepherd bound with flowers ; Chanter of the Polio, glorying in the blissful years again to be, Summers of the snakeless meadow, unlaborious earth and oarless sea ; Thou that seest Universal Nature moved by Universal Mind; Thou majestic in thy sadness at the doubtful doom of human kind ; Light among the vanish'd ages ; star that glidest yet this phantom shore ; Golden branch amid the shadows, kings and realms that pass to rise no more ; Now thy Forum roars no longer 5 fallen every purple Caesar's dome— Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm sound forever of imperial Home — Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd, and the Rome of freemen holds her place; I, from out the Northern Island sunder'd once from all the human race. I salute thee, Mantovano, I that loved thee eince my day began, Wielder of the stateliest measure ever moulded by the lips of man. Tennyson. SUMMER LONGINGS. Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, Waiting for the May— Waiting for the pleasant rambles "Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, With the woodbine alternating, Scent the dewy way. Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, Waiting for the May. Waiting sad, dejected, weary, Waiting for the May. Spring goes by with wasted warnings, Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings ; Summer comes, yet dark and dreary Life still ebbs away. Man is ever weary, weary, Waiting for the May ! —D. P. McCarthy. HYMN OP PITTSBURG. My father was a mighty Vulcan ; I am smith of the land and sea; The cunning spirit of Tubal-Cain Came with my marrow to me. I think great thoughts, strong-winged with steel;

I coin vast iron acts, And orb the impalpable dreams of seers Into comely, lyric facts.

I am monarch of all the Forges, I have solved the riddle of fire, The Amen of Nature to cry of Man ; Answers at my desire. I search with the subtle soul of flame The heart of the rocky Earth, And hot from my anvils the prophecies Of the miracle years leap forth. I am swart with the soots of my furnace, I drip witli the sweats of toil j My fingers throttle the savage wastes, I tear the curse from the soil. I fling the bridges across the gulfs That holds us from the To-Be, And build the roads from the bannered march Of crowned humanity.