 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
135
MARTIAL LYRICS.
INSCRIBED TO MY KINSMAN, MAJOR WILLIAM R. ANDREWS.
CAPTAIN MAY.
Loud plaudits for our bold Dragoon,
The gallant Captain May!
The light of glory's dazzling noon
Will gild his name for aye.
Though fast and hot the hurtling shot
Fell round his little band,
He paled not, he quailed not,
But drew his glittering brand.
The gallant Captain May!
The light of glory's dazzling noon
Will gild his name for aye.
Though fast and hot the hurtling shot
Fell round his little band,
He paled not, he quailed not,
But drew his glittering brand.
More lurid grew the battle-cloud,
But not a horseman spurred;
Their leader, on his charger proud,
Sate waiting for the word;
Though far around the trampled ground
Was with the fallen strown,
He paled not, he quailed not,
As if his form was stone.
But not a horseman spurred;
Their leader, on his charger proud,
Sate waiting for the word;
Though far around the trampled ground
Was with the fallen strown,
He paled not, he quailed not,
As if his form was stone.
The General galloped to his side,
And issued order stern—
“Now forward with your squadron ride,
And deathless honor earn;
That battery must taken be
Ere Mexico is tamed”—
He paled not, he quailed not,
But—“Follow me”—exclaimed.
And issued order stern—
“Now forward with your squadron ride,
And deathless honor earn;
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Ere Mexico is tamed”—
He paled not, he quailed not,
But—“Follow me”—exclaimed.
There was a rush of men and steeds,
Fierce struggling for renown,
And hostile ranks, like shiver'd reeds,
In that wild charge went down:
Brave Vega yields, though many fields
Had heard his warlike shout,
And pale now, and quail now
His thousands put to rout.
Fierce struggling for renown,
And hostile ranks, like shiver'd reeds,
In that wild charge went down:
Brave Vega yields, though many fields
Had heard his warlike shout,
And pale now, and quail now
His thousands put to rout.
Twine garlands for our Cavalier,
The gallant Captain May!
A knight without reproach, or fear—
A Bayard in the fray!
When flags that wave above the brave
Are scorched by battle's breath,
He pales not, he quails not,
But fronts the face of death.
The gallant Captain May!
A knight without reproach, or fear—
A Bayard in the fray!
When flags that wave above the brave
Are scorched by battle's breath,
He pales not, he quails not,
But fronts the face of death.
On every breeze should grandly swell
A Nation's funeral hymn
For those, the staunch and true, who fell
In that encounter grim:—
To grace the plain where they were slain
Proud piles should tower on high:
They paled not, they quailed not,
But died as heroes die.
A Nation's funeral hymn
For those, the staunch and true, who fell
In that encounter grim:—
To grace the plain where they were slain
Proud piles should tower on high:
They paled not, they quailed not,
But died as heroes die.
137
A LAY OF BRITTANY.
[_]
SUGGESTED BY READING MICHELET'S SPIRITED DESCRIPTION OF THIS OLD PROVINCE IN HIS HISTORY OF FRANCE.
Bretons love their native land
With its coast so dark and sterile—
Men of iron heart and hand,
Framed from youth to cope with peril.
Oft have Breton heads and breasts
Fierce invading cohorts driven
Back, with shorn and humbled crests,
And their armor hacked and riven.
Though the soil is cold and hard,
Small return to labor giving,
Scenes we point to, by the bard
Linked to song forever living.
With its coast so dark and sterile—
Men of iron heart and hand,
Framed from youth to cope with peril.
Oft have Breton heads and breasts
Fierce invading cohorts driven
Back, with shorn and humbled crests,
And their armor hacked and riven.
Though the soil is cold and hard,
Small return to labor giving,
Scenes we point to, by the bard
Linked to song forever living.
Name of terror to the brave—
Lair of danger ever lowering;
Grim Cape Raz above the wave
Full three hundred feet is towering.
Thither on the rocking surge,
Have the old sea kings been drifted,
While the tempest howled a dirge,
And rough hands in prayer were lifted.
On our dark and frowning strand
Crushed are vessels every winter,
And in vain a ghastly band,
Drowning, clench frail oar and splinter.
Lair of danger ever lowering;
Grim Cape Raz above the wave
Full three hundred feet is towering.
Thither on the rocking surge,
Have the old sea kings been drifted,
While the tempest howled a dirge,
And rough hands in prayer were lifted.
On our dark and frowning strand
Crushed are vessels every winter,
And in vain a ghastly band,
Drowning, clench frail oar and splinter.
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Deadman's Bay within its breast
Hath entombed the lost for ages,
For a tide that knows no rest
War against the seaman wages.
Since the bearded Norsemen bold
By its hungry depths were swallowed,
Art of man, in sluggish mould,
Deeper charnel hath not hollowed.
In a last embrace entwined,
Wrecked at midnight black and cheerless,
To its custody consigned
Down have sunk the fair and fearless.
Treasure-house of wealth untold,
Jewels, amid bones, lie scattered,
Knightly arms inlaid with gold,
Dinted helm, and hauberk battered.
Hath entombed the lost for ages,
For a tide that knows no rest
War against the seaman wages.
Since the bearded Norsemen bold
By its hungry depths were swallowed,
Art of man, in sluggish mould,
Deeper charnel hath not hollowed.
In a last embrace entwined,
Wrecked at midnight black and cheerless,
To its custody consigned
Down have sunk the fair and fearless.
Treasure-house of wealth untold,
Jewels, amid bones, lie scattered,
Knightly arms inlaid with gold,
Dinted helm, and hauberk battered.
Islands rise above the wave,
Chained by fearful shoals together,
Where the Sacred Virgins gave
To the Celt sunshiny weather;
There their orgies drowned the gale,
Growling surf, and osprey screaming,
While around the distant sail
Glanced the lightning redly gleaming.
Mariners, far off at sea,
To the shrouds in terror clinging,
Heard their chant of hellish glee,
And barbaric cymbals ringing.
Chained by fearful shoals together,
Where the Sacred Virgins gave
To the Celt sunshiny weather;
There their orgies drowned the gale,
Growling surf, and osprey screaming,
While around the distant sail
Glanced the lightning redly gleaming.
Mariners, far off at sea,
To the shrouds in terror clinging,
Heard their chant of hellish glee,
And barbaric cymbals ringing.
Rifted rocks are near the coast,
Girdled by the billows hoary,
And each one of them can boast,
Stranger! its romantic story.
One that lifts its rugged brow,
With the spray around it curling,
Though so bare and dreary now,
Was the haunt of Wizard Merlin:
Never more will work his spell,
Nor the magic rhyme be spoken,
But of him our legends tell
Though his mighty wand is broken.
Girdled by the billows hoary,
And each one of them can boast,
Stranger! its romantic story.
One that lifts its rugged brow,
With the spray around it curling,
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Was the haunt of Wizard Merlin:
Never more will work his spell,
Nor the magic rhyme be spoken,
But of him our legends tell
Though his mighty wand is broken.
Listen to that mournful roar,
To the ground-swell's measured beating!
Clamoring for graves on shore
Ghosts of shipwrecked men are meeting.
Fair the weather, or serene,
Newly-born the day, or dying,
Two black ravens may be seen
O'er yon rocky islet flying.
They are spirits of the dead—
Of a king whose doom is written.
And a child, whose beauteous head
By the same dark blow was smitten.
On yon rock in thunder rolls,
With its snow-white crown, the water,
Fitting dirge-note for the souls
Of King Grallo and his daughter.
To the ground-swell's measured beating!
Clamoring for graves on shore
Ghosts of shipwrecked men are meeting.
Fair the weather, or serene,
Newly-born the day, or dying,
Two black ravens may be seen
O'er yon rocky islet flying.
They are spirits of the dead—
Of a king whose doom is written.
And a child, whose beauteous head
By the same dark blow was smitten.
On yon rock in thunder rolls,
With its snow-white crown, the water,
Fitting dirge-note for the souls
Of King Grallo and his daughter.
Bretons love their province old,
Rugged nurse of gallant spirits—
Traitors cannot bribe with gold
Heart that Breton blood inherits.
Now, as in the glorious past,
France may trust in Breton daring;
When the sheath aside is cast,
Breton steel is aye unsparing.
Hohenlinden's Chief was nursed
By a dauntless Breton mother;
Let the storm of battle burst,
Breton prowess naught can smother!
Rugged nurse of gallant spirits—
Traitors cannot bribe with gold
Heart that Breton blood inherits.
Now, as in the glorious past,
France may trust in Breton daring;
When the sheath aside is cast,
Breton steel is aye unsparing.
Hohenlinden's Chief was nursed
By a dauntless Breton mother;
Let the storm of battle burst,
Breton prowess naught can smother!
140
History her leaves may turn,
And no braver name discover
Written than Latour D'Auvergne,
Glory's pure and faithful lover!
When at Waterloo eclipse
Dimm'd our hopes, one brave defender
Shouted out with Breton lips:—
“We can die, but not surrender!”
If in strife we meet once more
British bosoms, woe betide them!
Naught, upon our iron shores,
Foes e'er won but graves to hide them!
And no braver name discover
Written than Latour D'Auvergne,
Glory's pure and faithful lover!
When at Waterloo eclipse
Dimm'd our hopes, one brave defender
Shouted out with Breton lips:—
“We can die, but not surrender!”
If in strife we meet once more
British bosoms, woe betide them!
Naught, upon our iron shores,
Foes e'er won but graves to hide them!
141
THE DRAGOON TO HIS STEED.
[_]
SUGGESTED BY SEEING BLACK WARRIOR, THE HIGHLY PRIZED CHARGER OF MAJOR MERRILL, OF THE SECOND DRAGOONS OF THE U. S. ARMY.
Old war-steed, while combing
Thy dark-flowing mane,
In thought I am roaming
Through fields of the slain:
Brave comrades are leaping
To saddle once more,
And follow me, steeping
Their sabres in gore:—
Through squares, formed of steel, that are shattered like glass,
Outspeeding the rush of the whirlwind, we pass.
Thy dark-flowing mane,
In thought I am roaming
Through fields of the slain:
Brave comrades are leaping
To saddle once more,
And follow me, steeping
Their sabres in gore:—
Through squares, formed of steel, that are shattered like glass,
Outspeeding the rush of the whirlwind, we pass.
Through wastes, hot and sterile,
Swamps, dismal and dread,
Companion in peril!
How oft have we sped:
Though night, dark and dreary,
Her curtain had drawn,
Thy limbs never weary
Would hurry me on;
And back the grim scar that is trenching thy neck
Brings a terrible vision of carnage and wreck.
Swamps, dismal and dread,
Companion in peril!
How oft have we sped:
Though night, dark and dreary,
Her curtain had drawn,
Thy limbs never weary
Would hurry me on;
And back the grim scar that is trenching thy neck
Brings a terrible vision of carnage and wreck.
A host is defending
Molino del Rey,
And clouds are ascending
To curtain the day.
Friends drop, torn asunder
By chain-shot and shell,
The hill-shaking thunder
Of cannon their knell;
But on press survivors, while guarded by walls
Foes check their advance with a tempest of balls.
Molino del Rey,
And clouds are ascending
To curtain the day.
Friends drop, torn asunder
By chain-shot and shell,
142
Of cannon their knell;
But on press survivors, while guarded by walls
Foes check their advance with a tempest of balls.
Loud yells of derision
Prove vain the attack—
Like waves from collision
With rocks, they fall back:—
Chill horror is goading
The brave to despair,
And black mines exploding
Hurl corpses through air;
But, true to their colors, they rally and form—
Though man cannot live, and confront such a storm.
Prove vain the attack—
Like waves from collision
With rocks, they fall back:—
Chill horror is goading
The brave to despair,
And black mines exploding
Hurl corpses through air;
But, true to their colors, they rally and form—
Though man cannot live, and confront such a storm.
Lo! lancers in motion,
Rank bristling on rank,
Rush like waves of the ocean,
To charge us in flank;
But signal to meet them
Our bugleman blows,
And long sabres greet them
With skull-cleaving blows:
Horse and rider go down that fierce onslaught before,
And thousands are flying to rally no more.
Rank bristling on rank,
Rush like waves of the ocean,
To charge us in flank;
But signal to meet them
Our bugleman blows,
And long sabres greet them
With skull-cleaving blows:
Horse and rider go down that fierce onslaught before,
And thousands are flying to rally no more.
Companion in danger!
Though now growing old,
For thee would the stranger
In vain offer gold.
The trumpet will cheer not,
My courage decay—
That morn when I hear not
Thy welcoming neigh;
For never was cavalier seen on the back
Of steed that could rival my own gallant Black.
Though now growing old,
For thee would the stranger
In vain offer gold.
The trumpet will cheer not,
My courage decay—
That morn when I hear not
Thy welcoming neigh;
For never was cavalier seen on the back
Of steed that could rival my own gallant Black.
143
THE GRAYS AT AVON.
AN IMPROMPTU.
They come! the gallant Grays—
With firm but measured tread,
And their polished arms flash back the rays
By an August morning shed;
And a cry of welcome, long and loud,
Breaks from the lips of the gazing crowd.
With firm but measured tread,
And their polished arms flash back the rays
By an August morning shed;
And a cry of welcome, long and loud,
Breaks from the lips of the gazing crowd.
They move as if one soul
Beat in their proud array,
Timing their march to the drum's deep roll,
And the trumpet's stormy bray—
Oh! matchless strain! the Spartan fife,
And Orlando's horn had less of life.
Beat in their proud array,
Timing their march to the drum's deep roll,
And the trumpet's stormy bray—
Oh! matchless strain! the Spartan fife,
And Orlando's horn had less of life.
Lo! they are passing by—
Those men of martial mien!
And at vine-wreathed porch and casement high
Fair ladies may be seen,
While flowers, bright flowers to the warlike band
Are flung by many a snow-white hand.
Those men of martial mien!
And at vine-wreathed porch and casement high
Fair ladies may be seen,
While flowers, bright flowers to the warlike band
Are flung by many a snow-white hand.
The banner disappears—
No more the music rings,
And a heavy tramp to listening ears
Alone the zephyr brings,
While helmet, plume, and glittering blade
From view like a dream of romance fade.
No more the music rings,
And a heavy tramp to listening ears
Alone the zephyr brings,
While helmet, plume, and glittering blade
From view like a dream of romance fade.
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Sons of the steel! adieu!
When honor calls, I know
That to home and hearth ye will be true,
And a terror to the foe;
For banner never flung its fold
O'er forms of more heroic mould.
When honor calls, I know
That to home and hearth ye will be true,
And a terror to the foe;
For banner never flung its fold
O'er forms of more heroic mould.
When on the darkened shore
Of time to death ye yield,
And your ordered ranks are seen no more
On life's great battle-field,
May command by the Lord of Hosts be given
That your tents be pitched on the plains of Heaven.
Of time to death ye yield,
And your ordered ranks are seen no more
On life's great battle-field,
May command by the Lord of Hosts be given
That your tents be pitched on the plains of Heaven.
145
DEATH OF ROB ROY.
[“When this chieftain was on his death-bed, a gentleman whom he had reason to consider as an enemy, came to see him. On being requested to admit him to his bed-side, he said: ‘Raise me up, buckle on my arms, then admit him!’ The guest was received with cold civility, and in a short time departed. ‘Now,’ said Rob Roy ‘call in the piper.’ The piper came, and he expired with the voice of war pealing around him.”]
With heather pillowing his head
The dying outlaw lay,
And plaided clansmen round his bed
Stood watching in dismay.
Wild throes of dissolution shook
His worn and wasted frame,
But native lordliness of look
Distemper could not tame.
The dying outlaw lay,
And plaided clansmen round his bed
Stood watching in dismay.
Wild throes of dissolution shook
His worn and wasted frame,
But native lordliness of look
Distemper could not tame.
The walls of his rude dwelling-place
Were hung with weapons bright—
With branching antlers of the chase,
And trophies won in fight.
His tall, gaunt hound of proven worth,
Acute of eye and ear,
Slept idly on the lighted hearth,
Forgetful of the deer.
Were hung with weapons bright—
With branching antlers of the chase,
And trophies won in fight.
His tall, gaunt hound of proven worth,
Acute of eye and ear,
Slept idly on the lighted hearth,
Forgetful of the deer.
Cold dew—that herald which precedes
The winding-sheet, and wail
Of mourning ones—in clammy beads,
Stood on his forehead pale.
Faint grew the swell of his proud breast
And dim his falcon eye,
But manfully his lip suppressed
The groan of agony.
The winding-sheet, and wail
Of mourning ones—in clammy beads,
Stood on his forehead pale.
Faint grew the swell of his proud breast
And dim his falcon eye,
But manfully his lip suppressed
The groan of agony.
146
While ran his blood with feebler flow,
Strode in a clansman stout,
And told the chief, in accents low,
“A stranger waits without!”
Then syllabled the name—a word
Unwelcome to his ears,
Which darkly in his bosom stirred
The hoarded hate of years.
Strode in a clansman stout,
And told the chief, in accents low,
“A stranger waits without!”
Then syllabled the name—a word
Unwelcome to his ears,
Which darkly in his bosom stirred
The hoarded hate of years.
“No member of a hostile clan,
While heart or pulse can beat,
Shall see me,” said the dying man,
“In posture of defeat.
Array me in the spoils I took
From enemies laid low;
Clad thus, Macgregor cannot brook
The presence of a foe.
While heart or pulse can beat,
Shall see me,” said the dying man,
“In posture of defeat.
Array me in the spoils I took
From enemies laid low;
Clad thus, Macgregor cannot brook
The presence of a foe.
“Bring forth the bonnet that I wore
When blood was on the heather,
Though in the mountain wind no more
Will nod its eagle feather;
Gird on my sword, of temper tried,
Old beam of hope in danger,
To deeds of hardihood allied,
And then admit the stranger!”
When blood was on the heather,
Though in the mountain wind no more
Will nod its eagle feather;
Gird on my sword, of temper tried,
Old beam of hope in danger,
To deeds of hardihood allied,
And then admit the stranger!”
Attendants clad the dying man
In garb that well became
The leader of a martial clan,
A warrior of fame;
Admitted then his guest, who met
Reception stern and cold;
The Highland Chief could not forget
The bloody feuds of old.
In garb that well became
The leader of a martial clan,
A warrior of fame;
Admitted then his guest, who met
Reception stern and cold;
The Highland Chief could not forget
The bloody feuds of old.
The stranger soon withdrew. “Now call
The harper in, to cheer
My passing spirit with the strain
Most welcome to my ear!”
The hoary minstrel brought his lyre,
To notes of battle strung,
And, fingering its chords of fire,
In stormy concert sung:—
The harper in, to cheer
147
Most welcome to my ear!”
The hoary minstrel brought his lyre,
To notes of battle strung,
And, fingering its chords of fire,
In stormy concert sung:—
“The plaid round his shoulders our leader hath thrown,
And a gathering blast on his bugle hath blown;
He calls on the dauntless and ready of hand
To gather around him with bonnet and brand;
Like hounds scenting out the retreat of the stag,
We quit, for the Lowlands, our home on the crag.
And a gathering blast on his bugle hath blown;
He calls on the dauntless and ready of hand
To gather around him with bonnet and brand;
Like hounds scenting out the retreat of the stag,
We quit, for the Lowlands, our home on the crag.
“The dirk of our fathers in gore we must dye!
Will the falcon forbear, when the quarry is nigh?
The Saxon dreams not, in his flowery vale,
That our pennon is flung to the welcoming gale;
That we come from the mountains to scourge and destroy,
And the chieftain we follow is dreaded Rob Roy.
Will the falcon forbear, when the quarry is nigh?
The Saxon dreams not, in his flowery vale,
That our pennon is flung to the welcoming gale;
That we come from the mountains to scourge and destroy,
And the chieftain we follow is dreaded Rob Roy.
“On the head of Macgregor a price hath been set,
With the blood of our clan Lowland sabres are wet;
Elated by triumph, red wine freely flows,
And loud is the song in the camp of our foes;
But to shrieking will change their demoniac joy,
When sound our glad pipers the charge of Rob Roy!”
With the blood of our clan Lowland sabres are wet;
Elated by triumph, red wine freely flows,
And loud is the song in the camp of our foes;
But to shrieking will change their demoniac joy,
When sound our glad pipers the charge of Rob Roy!”
Ere died the battle-song away,
Rose up the voice of wail,
While motionless the chieftain lay,
With face like marble pale.
No kindly word from him repaid
The harper for his strain;
The hushing hand of death was laid
On heart, and pulse, and brain!
Rose up the voice of wail,
While motionless the chieftain lay,
With face like marble pale.
No kindly word from him repaid
The harper for his strain;
The hushing hand of death was laid
On heart, and pulse, and brain!
148
SONG FOR POLAND.
Up, for encounter stern,
While unsheathed weapons gleam;
The beacon-fires of Freedom burn,
Her banners wildly stream;
Awake! and drink at purple springs—
Lo! the “white eagle” flaps his wings
With a rejoicing scream
That sends an old, heroic thrill
Through hearts that are unconquer'd still.
While unsheathed weapons gleam;
The beacon-fires of Freedom burn,
Her banners wildly stream;
Awake! and drink at purple springs—
Lo! the “white eagle” flaps his wings
With a rejoicing scream
That sends an old, heroic thrill
Through hearts that are unconquer'd still.
Leap to your saddles, leap!
Tried wielders of the lance,
And charge as when ye broke the sleep
Of Europe, at the call of France:
The knightly deeds of other years
Eclipse, ye matchless cavaliers!
While plume and pennon dance—
That Prince, upon his phantom steed,
In Ellster lost your ranks will lead.
Tried wielders of the lance,
And charge as when ye broke the sleep
Of Europe, at the call of France:
The knightly deeds of other years
Eclipse, ye matchless cavaliers!
While plume and pennon dance—
That Prince, upon his phantom steed,
In Ellster lost your ranks will lead.
Flock round the altar, flock:
And swear ye will be free;
Then rush to brave the battle shock
Like surges of a maddened sea;
Death, with a red and shattered brand
Yet clinging to the rigid hand,
A blissful fate would be,
Contrasted with that darker doom,
A branded brow—a living tomb.
And swear ye will be free;
Then rush to brave the battle shock
Like surges of a maddened sea;
Death, with a red and shattered brand
Yet clinging to the rigid hand,
A blissful fate would be,
Contrasted with that darker doom,
A branded brow—a living tomb.
149
Speed to the combat, speed!
And beat Oppression down,
Or win, by martyrdom, the meed
Of high and shadowless renown:—
Ye weary exiles, from afar
Come back! and make the savage Czar
In terror clutch his crown,
While wronged and vengeful millions roar
Defiance at his palace door.
And beat Oppression down,
Or win, by martyrdom, the meed
Of high and shadowless renown:—
Ye weary exiles, from afar
Come back! and make the savage Czar
In terror clutch his crown,
While wronged and vengeful millions roar
Defiance at his palace door.
Throng forth with souls to dare,
From huts and ruined halls!
On the deep midnight of despair
A beam of ancient glory falls;
The knout, the chain, and dungeon cave
To frenzy have aroused the brave;
Dismembered Poland calls,
And through a land opprest, betrayed,
Stalks Kosciusko's frowning shade.
From huts and ruined halls!
On the deep midnight of despair
A beam of ancient glory falls;
The knout, the chain, and dungeon cave
To frenzy have aroused the brave;
Dismembered Poland calls,
And through a land opprest, betrayed,
Stalks Kosciusko's frowning shade.
150
ERIN WAKING.
Light streams through a rift in the cloud
That hangs over green Innisfail—
While voices of millions are shouting aloud,
The satraps of tyranny quail:
The collar of shame hath been worn
Through ages of folly and woe—
Too long hath thy neck, O Hibernia! borne
The yoke of a merciless foe,
Whose creatures, while perfidy sharpened the dart,
Like vultures have crimsoned their beaks in thy heart.
That hangs over green Innisfail—
While voices of millions are shouting aloud,
The satraps of tyranny quail:
The collar of shame hath been worn
Through ages of folly and woe—
Too long hath thy neck, O Hibernia! borne
The yoke of a merciless foe,
Whose creatures, while perfidy sharpened the dart,
Like vultures have crimsoned their beaks in thy heart.
Hot winds from the waste of despair
On thy blood-bedewed shamrock have breathed,
But the leaves, growing verdant in liberty's air,
Again round her brow shall be wreathed:
And chisel of art on the stone
Shall name of that martyr engrave
Who prayed for a sepulchre, noteless and lone,
While foot of one heart-broken slave
Polluted the green of that beautiful shore,
By steel-harnessed champions trodden of yore.
On thy blood-bedewed shamrock have breathed,
But the leaves, growing verdant in liberty's air,
Again round her brow shall be wreathed:
And chisel of art on the stone
Shall name of that martyr engrave
Who prayed for a sepulchre, noteless and lone,
While foot of one heart-broken slave
Polluted the green of that beautiful shore,
By steel-harnessed champions trodden of yore.
Gone forth hath the gathering word,
And under Hesperian skies
Fond exiles the call of their mother have heard,
And homeward are turning their eyes:
They send o'er the murmuring brine
In answer a shout of applause,
And drops, that give warmth to their bosoms like wine,
Are ready to shed in a cause
That cannot march on with a faltering stride
While Truth wears a buckler, and God is a guide.
And under Hesperian skies
Fond exiles the call of their mother have heard,
And homeward are turning their eyes:
They send o'er the murmuring brine
In answer a shout of applause,
151
Are ready to shed in a cause
That cannot march on with a faltering stride
While Truth wears a buckler, and God is a guide.
Land of the valiant! at last
The brow of thy future is bright;
In return for a shadowed and comfortless past
Is dawning an era of light:
The Lion of Britain in vain
Is baring his teeth for the fray—
Thy children have sworn that dishonoring stain
Shall be wiped from thy forehead away;
The bones of thy martyrs have stirred in the tomb,
And glimmers the starlight of Hope through the gloom.
The brow of thy future is bright;
In return for a shadowed and comfortless past
Is dawning an era of light:
The Lion of Britain in vain
Is baring his teeth for the fray—
Thy children have sworn that dishonoring stain
Shall be wiped from thy forehead away;
The bones of thy martyrs have stirred in the tomb,
And glimmers the starlight of Hope through the gloom.
Invaders thy valor have rued—
To deeds that will aye be admired,
Bear witness, Clontarf! where the Dane was subdued,
And Brian, the dauntless, expired:
Thy sons on the scaffold have died,
The block hath been soaked with their gore,
And long ago banished thy splendor and pride;
But idle it seems to deplore—
Unbending resolve to blot out thy disgrace,
In hearts of the brave, to regret should give place.
To deeds that will aye be admired,
Bear witness, Clontarf! where the Dane was subdued,
And Brian, the dauntless, expired:
Thy sons on the scaffold have died,
The block hath been soaked with their gore,
And long ago banished thy splendor and pride;
But idle it seems to deplore—
Unbending resolve to blot out thy disgrace,
In hearts of the brave, to regret should give place.
The Genius of Erin from earth,
Uprising, hath broken the bowl,
Whose tide to a black-crested viper gave birth,
That long dimmed the light of her soul;
And millions of high-hearted men
Who thus can wild passion restrain,
Though driven for refuge to cavern and den,
Will arm for the conflict again—
And, venturing all on the hazardous cast,
Prove victors, though worn and outnumbered, at last.
Uprising, hath broken the bowl,
Whose tide to a black-crested viper gave birth,
That long dimmed the light of her soul;
And millions of high-hearted men
Who thus can wild passion restrain,
Though driven for refuge to cavern and den,
Will arm for the conflict again—
And, venturing all on the hazardous cast,
Prove victors, though worn and outnumbered, at last.
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Thou isle, on the breast of the sea
Like an emerald gracefully set,
Though feet shod with iron have trampled on thee,
A brightness belongs to thee yet:
In bondage thy magical lyre
Hath thrilled a wide world with its strains,
And thine eloquent sons have awakened a fire
That fast is dissolving thy chains:—
The Saxon is watching the issue in fear—
He knows that thy day of redemption draws near.
Like an emerald gracefully set,
Though feet shod with iron have trampled on thee,
A brightness belongs to thee yet:
In bondage thy magical lyre
Hath thrilled a wide world with its strains,
And thine eloquent sons have awakened a fire
That fast is dissolving thy chains:—
The Saxon is watching the issue in fear—
He knows that thy day of redemption draws near.
153
FLING OUT THAT STARRY BANNER.
SONG OF WILLIAMS' LIGHT INFANTRY.
Fling out that starry banner!
We love its shining fold,
A brighter never fluttered o'er
The knightly men of old;
And never muse of history
Traced in her golden tome
A prouder motto than it bears:
“Our country and our home!”
We love its shining fold,
A brighter never fluttered o'er
The knightly men of old;
And never muse of history
Traced in her golden tome
A prouder motto than it bears:
“Our country and our home!”
Fling out that starry banner!
The wild winds love it well,
Eyes flash to see its blazonry,
And hearts with valor swell,
Proud symbols graced thy battle-flag,
Thou Queen of Victors, Rome!
But on it flamed no words like these:
“Our country and our home!”
The wild winds love it well,
Eyes flash to see its blazonry,
And hearts with valor swell,
Proud symbols graced thy battle-flag,
Thou Queen of Victors, Rome!
But on it flamed no words like these:
“Our country and our home!”
Fling out that starry banner!
A sign of dread to foes—
Untwining from its staff around
A radiant light it throws;
Beneath it we will brave assault,
As rocks the white sea-foam—
Strike for our wives and lady-loves,
“Our country and our home!”
A sign of dread to foes—
Untwining from its staff around
A radiant light it throws;
Beneath it we will brave assault,
As rocks the white sea-foam—
Strike for our wives and lady-loves,
“Our country and our home!”
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SONG OF TEXAS.
Make room on our banner bright
That flaps in the lifting gale,
For the orb that lit the fight
In Jacinto's storied vale.
Through clouds, all dark of hue,
It arose with radiant face;
Oh! grant to a sister true,
Ye stars, in your train a place!
That flaps in the lifting gale,
For the orb that lit the fight
In Jacinto's storied vale.
Through clouds, all dark of hue,
It arose with radiant face;
Oh! grant to a sister true,
Ye stars, in your train a place!
The blood of the Saxon flows
In the veins of men who cry—
“Give ear, give ear unto those
Who pine for their native sky!
We call on our mother-land
For a home in Freedom's hall—
While stretching forth the hand,
Oh! build not dividing wall!
In the veins of men who cry—
“Give ear, give ear unto those
Who pine for their native sky!
We call on our mother-land
For a home in Freedom's hall—
While stretching forth the hand,
Oh! build not dividing wall!
“The Mexican vaunteth no more;
In strife we have tamed his pride;
The coward raps not at your door,
Speak out! shall it open wide?
Oh, the wish of our hearts is strong,
That the star of Jacinto's fight
Have place in the flashing throng
That spangle your banner bright.”
In strife we have tamed his pride;
The coward raps not at your door,
Speak out! shall it open wide?
Oh, the wish of our hearts is strong,
That the star of Jacinto's fight
Have place in the flashing throng
That spangle your banner bright.”
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ERIN'S WAR-SONG.
Up! Erin's battle-shout
The tombs of old is waking—
Fling the green banner out,
The Saxon yoke is breaking!
The heart-wrung sighs of centuries
Will soon be hushed forever,
And Slavery's brand our native land
Again shall blacken never!
Up! &c.
The tombs of old is waking—
Fling the green banner out,
The Saxon yoke is breaking!
The heart-wrung sighs of centuries
Will soon be hushed forever,
And Slavery's brand our native land
Again shall blacken never!
Up! &c.
Bare to the light once more
The blade that Brian wielded,
When, 'mid wild battle's roar,
The haughty Norseman yielded!
Achievements high of days gone by
Shall nerve us for the trial,
Though drops are shed on valor's head
From Fate's most deadly vial.
Up! &c
The blade that Brian wielded,
When, 'mid wild battle's roar,
The haughty Norseman yielded!
Achievements high of days gone by
Shall nerve us for the trial,
Though drops are shed on valor's head
From Fate's most deadly vial.
Up! &c
Con of the Hundred Fights
Awakes the green sod under;
Fired are the beacon-lights,
Our watch-word peals like thunder;
Old Tara's lyre with chords of fire
Unearthly hands are stringing,
And the proud lays of other days
Dim phantom forms are singing.
Up! &c.
Awakes the green sod under;
Fired are the beacon-lights,
Our watch-word peals like thunder;
Old Tara's lyre with chords of fire
Unearthly hands are stringing,
And the proud lays of other days
Dim phantom forms are singing.
Up! &c.
156
Swear by our martyred dead
Whose praise sad bard hath spoken;
Swear by the brave who bled
When Felim's shield was broken,
That Erin free, above the sea
Shall lift her head long clouded,
Or slain we'll rest, each pulseless breast
In war's deep crimson shrouded!
Up! Erin's battle-shout
The tombs of old is waking—
Fling the green banner out,
The Saxon yoke is breaking!
Whose praise sad bard hath spoken;
Swear by the brave who bled
When Felim's shield was broken,
That Erin free, above the sea
Shall lift her head long clouded,
Or slain we'll rest, each pulseless breast
In war's deep crimson shrouded!
Up! Erin's battle-shout
The tombs of old is waking—
Fling the green banner out,
The Saxon yoke is breaking!
157
LAMENT OF AN AUSTERLITZ VETERAN.
My glance was not fearfully dim,
Nor the hair on my temples all hoary
When, guided through danger by him,
I came from the fight, red with glory—
Old badges of valor recall
The Hero that sleeps far from Gaul.
Nor the hair on my temples all hoary
When, guided through danger by him,
I came from the fight, red with glory—
Old badges of valor recall
The Hero that sleeps far from Gaul.
When I think of that isle in the brine
Where his cold, shrouded relics are lying,
Where winds with rough surges combine,
And his dirge are eternally sighing—
Tears, tears like the rain warmly fall
For the Hero that sleeps far from Gaul.
Where his cold, shrouded relics are lying,
Where winds with rough surges combine,
And his dirge are eternally sighing—
Tears, tears like the rain warmly fall
For the Hero that sleeps far from Gaul.
In dreams of the night I behold
His legions to battle advancing,
And conquering eagles unfold
Bright wings o'er his cavalry prancing,
And again I rejoice in the call
Of thy world-waking trumpet, oh, Gaul!
His legions to battle advancing,
And conquering eagles unfold
Bright wings o'er his cavalry prancing,
And again I rejoice in the call
Of thy world-waking trumpet, oh, Gaul!
Once more, on my withering cheek,
The storm of the Switzer is blowing
And the vulture of war whets his beak
Where the sands of the desert are glowing,
And our Chief in the Mameluke tall
Views a foe not unworthy of Gaul.
The storm of the Switzer is blowing
And the vulture of war whets his beak
Where the sands of the desert are glowing,
And our Chief in the Mameluke tall
Views a foe not unworthy of Gaul.
Again the red war-eagle builds
His perch in the tottering Kremlin,
And the sunbeam of Austerlitz gilds
The field with artillery trembling;
But morning robs night of her pall,
And I mourn the lost Hero of Gaul.
His perch in the tottering Kremlin,
And the sunbeam of Austerlitz gilds
The field with artillery trembling;
158
And I mourn the lost Hero of Gaul.
I was steadfast to suffering France
When the wild-winds of Faction blew on her,
And Hate shook the murderous lance,
And he gave me this bright cross of Honor—
These scars, won at Lodi, recall
The Hero that sleeps far from Gaul
When the wild-winds of Faction blew on her,
And Hate shook the murderous lance,
And he gave me this bright cross of Honor—
These scars, won at Lodi, recall
The Hero that sleeps far from Gaul
If I could have stood by his bed
When his soul, from the fetter that bound him,
To mix with mad elements fled,
That long had been warring around him,
One heart would have burst as the pall
Was flung o'er the Hero of Gaul.
When his soul, from the fetter that bound him,
To mix with mad elements fled,
That long had been warring around him,
One heart would have burst as the pall
Was flung o'er the Hero of Gaul.
O would that yon Seine near his tomb
Could wander, his requiem swelling,
That the sunshine of France could illume
The cold, earthen roof of his dwelling,
That the tears of remembrance could fall
On the grave of thy Hero, oh, Gaul!
Could wander, his requiem swelling,
That the sunshine of France could illume
The cold, earthen roof of his dwelling,
That the tears of remembrance could fall
On the grave of thy Hero, oh, Gaul!
Repining is vain! near the place
Where he moulders, the willow is trailing,
And Ocean the rock-guarded base
Of the desolate isle is assailing,
And the storm-cloud alone weeps the fall
Of the Hero that sleeps far from Gaul.
Where he moulders, the willow is trailing,
And Ocean the rock-guarded base
Of the desolate isle is assailing,
And the storm-cloud alone weeps the fall
Of the Hero that sleeps far from Gaul.
159
INDEPENDENCE ODE.
Ye sons of sires who gathered proudly
Our flag of stars and stripes around,
When rang the dread alarum loudly,
And paled Oppression at the sound—
Bless God—the just, the Ever-living,
Who guarded with his mighty shield
Young Freedom on the battle-field,
And shout an anthem of thanksgiving!
Cheer on! cheer on the march
Of mind throughout the globe,
Till wit and worth ennoble man,
Not crown and purple robe!
Our flag of stars and stripes around,
When rang the dread alarum loudly,
And paled Oppression at the sound—
Bless God—the just, the Ever-living,
Who guarded with his mighty shield
Young Freedom on the battle-field,
And shout an anthem of thanksgiving!
Cheer on! cheer on the march
Of mind throughout the globe,
Till wit and worth ennoble man,
Not crown and purple robe!
That ground is hallowed where one martyr
For holy truth contending dies,
And vile are they who would not barter
Gems, gold, and blood for such a prize;
Oh! dark the doom is of that vassal,
Lost in a maze of mental night—
Too abject to maintain the right,
Who hungers that his lord may wassail—
Then cheer, cheer on the march
Of mind throughout the globe,
Till wit and worth ennoble man,
Not crown and purple robe.
For holy truth contending dies,
And vile are they who would not barter
Gems, gold, and blood for such a prize;
Oh! dark the doom is of that vassal,
Lost in a maze of mental night—
Too abject to maintain the right,
Who hungers that his lord may wassail—
Then cheer, cheer on the march
Of mind throughout the globe,
Till wit and worth ennoble man,
Not crown and purple robe.
Our nation's dark and dismal morning
Hath brightened into cloudless day,
But notes of deep and fearful warning
Call on the wise to watch and pray.
From mountain, vale, and cavern lonely—
From Lexington and Monmouth ground,
Breathe out these words of solemn sound—
“In union there is safety only!”
Then cheer, cheer on the march
Of mind throughout the globe,
Till wit and worth ennoble man,
Not crown and purple robe.
Hath brightened into cloudless day,
But notes of deep and fearful warning
Call on the wise to watch and pray.
160
From Lexington and Monmouth ground,
Breathe out these words of solemn sound—
“In union there is safety only!”
Then cheer, cheer on the march
Of mind throughout the globe,
Till wit and worth ennoble man,
Not crown and purple robe.
The valor that found voice in thunder
On Bunker's glorious battle-hill,
And made the nations gaze in wonder,
Is living yet, is burning still.
Hark to the screaming of our eagle
Where fly, before a dauntless band,
The men of Montezuma's land,
Like frightened hares before the beagle!
Nine cheers, then, for the brave
Whose fame will know no blight!
They prove that mind wins mastery,
Not numbers in the fight.
On Bunker's glorious battle-hill,
And made the nations gaze in wonder,
Is living yet, is burning still.
Hark to the screaming of our eagle
Where fly, before a dauntless band,
The men of Montezuma's land,
Like frightened hares before the beagle!
Nine cheers, then, for the brave
Whose fame will know no blight!
They prove that mind wins mastery,
Not numbers in the fight.
A beacon on our coast is lighted
That kindles up the gloom of earth,
And guides the wanderer benighted
To Freedom's altar-stone and hearth
Would not our sires, entombed and sleeping,
Leap with their rusty brands from dust,
Should we prove faithless to the trust
Sternly committed to our keeping?
Yes, yes:—then cheer the march
Of mind throughout the globe,
Till wit and worth ennoble man—
Not crown and purple robe.
That kindles up the gloom of earth,
And guides the wanderer benighted
To Freedom's altar-stone and hearth
Would not our sires, entombed and sleeping,
Leap with their rusty brands from dust,
Should we prove faithless to the trust
Sternly committed to our keeping?
Yes, yes:—then cheer the march
Of mind throughout the globe,
Till wit and worth ennoble man—
Not crown and purple robe.
161
BATTLE-SONG OF THE POLISH LANCER.
To saddle, to saddle, with lances in rest!
By heel of the tyrant our greensward is pressed—
Yon Lord of the Balkan, while hurrying on
Long columns of footmen and hordes from the Don,
Dreams not that his laurels will wither to-day—
That a whirlwind of horsemen will crush his array!
Old Poland for ever!
By heel of the tyrant our greensward is pressed—
Yon Lord of the Balkan, while hurrying on
Long columns of footmen and hordes from the Don,
Dreams not that his laurels will wither to-day—
That a whirlwind of horsemen will crush his array!
Old Poland for ever!
Though muskets rain lead, and black cannon belch fire,
Beaten back by the shock, will the “Lancers retire?”
No!—an oath we have sealed, with the cross in our hands,
To charge! though our foemen outnumber the sands—
Aye, winged with the speed of a hurricane, ride
Through the ranks of the Czar, as a ship cleaves the tide.
Old Poland for ever!
Beaten back by the shock, will the “Lancers retire?”
No!—an oath we have sealed, with the cross in our hands,
To charge! though our foemen outnumber the sands—
Aye, winged with the speed of a hurricane, ride
Through the ranks of the Czar, as a ship cleaves the tide.
Old Poland for ever!
The war-note of Poland's “White Eagle” we hear!
He will scream soon a knell in the Muscovite's ear—
Our chargers, impatient, are pawing the ground—
They long, like their riders, for trumpet to sound!
Oh, when will the signal our bugleman blow,
To bear like a thunderbolt down on the foe!—
Old Poland for ever!
He will scream soon a knell in the Muscovite's ear—
Our chargers, impatient, are pawing the ground—
They long, like their riders, for trumpet to sound!
Oh, when will the signal our bugleman blow,
To bear like a thunderbolt down on the foe!—
Old Poland for ever!
While growl for red banquet these Bears of the North,
From Warsaw's bright turrets the lovely look forth;
Fair hands wrought the flag by our legion unrolled—
Bright eyes in the battle our deeds will behold:
Oh, who would not forth for his country to fight,
With the graves of her dead and her altars in sight!
Old Poland for ever!
From Warsaw's bright turrets the lovely look forth;
Fair hands wrought the flag by our legion unrolled—
Bright eyes in the battle our deeds will behold:
Oh, who would not forth for his country to fight,
With the graves of her dead and her altars in sight!
Old Poland for ever!
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |