Morning Star

POETRY.

The following beautiful lines from the last number of the Portland Magazine, are from the pen of Grenville Mellen.

WHAT IS IT TO BE GREAT

What is it to be great? How vain to ask,
With the eye fix'd on earth, while busy man
Sweeps the broad surface, mid its ocean noise!
Come hither, under the deep night, and stand
Upon this tower, when the wide city sleeps,
And a vast stillness broods upon the air.
Then look above, where the bright band of stars
Treads to its noble music, and the moon
Rides on its silent wheel the unfathom'd sky.
Look at the mighty sea-and hear the voice,
The same it uttered when the world was made,
And the great waters from the hand of God
Were pour'd into its deeps.
These are the works
That tell you what is Greatness-and oppress
The spirit, as it reads it -these the lines
That fade not, written on the wave and sky.
In characters of light ineffable!
And who is GREAT? Alas--the teeming earth
Has seen but One. The lowly Bethlehem
Shadow'd his infant brow-the manger, there,
Pillow'd his infant head. Yet who, like Him,
Has come from palaces, and walk'd the land,
With such a crown upon his golden hair?
Is Greatness from the glory of our sires?
Or the emblazon'd page of heraldry-
His Father was the God of all the earth;
His generation from Eternity!
Is it from Life-or life's great deeds, that stir
The heart to admiration—prayers--and tears?
His was a Life devoted to the world—
A Life that battled with eternal Death.
Is it from Glory? His was that of good-
Not marshall'd by the clarion and the trump,
But by the silent Gratitude of Earth.
Is it from Eloquence? His wondrous lips
Stirr'd the great elements--and mount and sea
Trembled before his words--and wind and storm
Sank at that magic utterance-"Be still."
He spake-and thrones before his startling voice,
And kings who fill'd them, in their robes & crowns,
Shook like an aspen in the coming storm.
Is it with power? His sceptre was o'er all.
And the wide world bow'd to his lifted hand.
Is it from lofty Love-that love for Man,
That dares the tempest of a madden'd earth-
The malediction of the human heart,
For which it bows it to the sepulchre?
His was the great philanthropy of God!
Alone He trod the wine-press--and alone.
In red Gethsemane He bow'd and bled
Great drops of agony-and cleans'd the world!
Then go-Earth knows no Greatness but the Soul's:
No Great one but the Good; and when we ask
Who bore the noblest front of royalty,
And who the noblest crown-I tell you He
Whose brow was first unveil'd in Bethlehem,
And veil'd at last, in thorns on Calvary!