 | Duganne's Poetical Works |  |
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Poems of Boyhood.
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TO Elijah Hobart, (OF MASSACHUSETTS,) AND S. L. Perkins and Paschal Loomis, (OF CONNECTICUT,) ARTISTS AND FRIENDS, These Poems of Boyhood ARE INSCRIBED, AS A MEMORIAL OF THE AUTHOR'S ESTEEM.
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MASSACHUSETTS.
The morn of Freedom's natal day once more
In sunlight breaketh. From the rocky shore
On which the dark Atlantic's waves break high,
To where the pine-trees, losing in the sky
Their feathery vastness, mark far Oregon;
Where'er the glorious morning-beams have shone,—
The pæans of rejoicing hosts arise,
In one glad anthem, to the cloudless skies.
All—all—are free!—on every hill-top wave
The flags of Freedom! in each mountain cave
Her chorus echoes!
List! methought a cry
Of woe rose thrillingly—methought a sigh,
Deep and heart-laden, trembled on the air!
Alas! not Freedom greets us everywhere!
Within the very garden of the brave,
Upon the blood-bought soil, there kneels—a slave!
His chains are clanking on the Southern gale,
And, mingling with the song of Freedom, comes his wail.
In sunlight breaketh. From the rocky shore
On which the dark Atlantic's waves break high,
To where the pine-trees, losing in the sky
Their feathery vastness, mark far Oregon;
Where'er the glorious morning-beams have shone,—
The pæans of rejoicing hosts arise,
In one glad anthem, to the cloudless skies.
All—all—are free!—on every hill-top wave
The flags of Freedom! in each mountain cave
Her chorus echoes!
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Of woe rose thrillingly—methought a sigh,
Deep and heart-laden, trembled on the air!
Alas! not Freedom greets us everywhere!
Within the very garden of the brave,
Upon the blood-bought soil, there kneels—a slave!
His chains are clanking on the Southern gale,
And, mingling with the song of Freedom, comes his wail.
O God! permit it not! on thee we call!
Wilt thou not free us from the numbing thrall
That binds the noble feelings which should spring
Spontaneous? “Let not the unclean thing
Abide in Israel!”
Turn we from the theme;—
There is a spot where Freedom's morning-beam
Burst every cloud. My heart will turn to thee—
Thee, Massachusetts!—home of Liberty!
Wilt thou not free us from the numbing thrall
That binds the noble feelings which should spring
Spontaneous? “Let not the unclean thing
Abide in Israel!”
Turn we from the theme;—
There is a spot where Freedom's morning-beam
Burst every cloud. My heart will turn to thee—
Thee, Massachusetts!—home of Liberty!
Land of my birth! the Star which erewhile led
The pilgrims to thy shores—the Star that shed
Its beams o'er sundered chains and shattered crowns—
That guided thee and thine beneath the frowns
Of sceptred imbeciles—that burst the night
Of Slavery, and lit the beacon-light
Of Freedom,—still shines on, still sheds its beams—
Not in the fitful cannon's lurid gleams,
Not in the wild war-fire, nor on the gold
Of flashing banners;—turn we, and behold
Its rays pervading, brightening, softening all—
Here in the Temple, there in Learning's hall.
The pilgrims to thy shores—the Star that shed
Its beams o'er sundered chains and shattered crowns—
That guided thee and thine beneath the frowns
Of sceptred imbeciles—that burst the night
Of Slavery, and lit the beacon-light
Of Freedom,—still shines on, still sheds its beams—
Not in the fitful cannon's lurid gleams,
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Of flashing banners;—turn we, and behold
Its rays pervading, brightening, softening all—
Here in the Temple, there in Learning's hall.
Time rushes back! the mighty works of art
Fade, like a dream, away; like clouds, depart
The “pomp, the pride, the pageants” of the day;
The busy life-sounds die in waves away,
Each minute circling wider. All alone,
(My soul unconscious of the tumult grown,)
In silence and in awe, I seem to stand
Upon the moaning ocean's storm-beat strand.
Stillness is all around me, save the sound
Of surging pine-trees, or the dull rebound
Of baffled waves upon the rocky shore,—
Perchance the distant and continuous roar
Of gathering tempests.
On the foamy wave,—
Now sinking in the gulf that seems her grave,
Now rising on the billows chill and dark,
Lo! tremblingly careens a sea-worn bark;
The breakers dash around her; on her lee
The cliffs uprear their forms; the rushing sea
Each moment threathens wreck; and sable night,
And stormy skies, and all the shapes that fright
The soul of man, are round her;—yet she rides
In safety—proudly stems the whirling tides;—
Till, moored at last within the sheltering bay,
Her weary crew behold the welcome day.
The laboring boat thro' stormy billows cleaves,
Where, on the beetling Rock, the surge upheaves;
And, springing lightly on the yielding sod,
They consecrate the soil—to Freedom and to God.
Fade, like a dream, away; like clouds, depart
The “pomp, the pride, the pageants” of the day;
The busy life-sounds die in waves away,
Each minute circling wider. All alone,
(My soul unconscious of the tumult grown,)
In silence and in awe, I seem to stand
Upon the moaning ocean's storm-beat strand.
Stillness is all around me, save the sound
Of surging pine-trees, or the dull rebound
Of baffled waves upon the rocky shore,—
Perchance the distant and continuous roar
Of gathering tempests.
On the foamy wave,—
Now sinking in the gulf that seems her grave,
Now rising on the billows chill and dark,
Lo! tremblingly careens a sea-worn bark;
The breakers dash around her; on her lee
The cliffs uprear their forms; the rushing sea
Each moment threathens wreck; and sable night,
And stormy skies, and all the shapes that fright
The soul of man, are round her;—yet she rides
In safety—proudly stems the whirling tides;—
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Her weary crew behold the welcome day.
The laboring boat thro' stormy billows cleaves,
Where, on the beetling Rock, the surge upheaves;
And, springing lightly on the yielding sod,
They consecrate the soil—to Freedom and to God.
High hearts were there—the aged and the young;
Around the gray-haired sire the infant clung;
The lofty form of manhood, and the fair
And shrinking maiden—all were clustered there!
In lofty faith—in hopefulness and love,
They stood—that noble band—until, above
The breakers' roar and tempest's din, the song
Of Freedom's gladness burst, and rolled along
The arching skies,—while hill, and vale, and plain,
And every forest-aisle, gave back an answering strain.
Around the gray-haired sire the infant clung;
The lofty form of manhood, and the fair
And shrinking maiden—all were clustered there!
In lofty faith—in hopefulness and love,
They stood—that noble band—until, above
The breakers' roar and tempest's din, the song
Of Freedom's gladness burst, and rolled along
The arching skies,—while hill, and vale, and plain,
And every forest-aisle, gave back an answering strain.
Time speeds away! Beneath the rushing tide
Of far-advancing empire, falls the pride
Of those primeval woods that, echoing, rang,
When loud and clear th' exulting pilgrims sang;
And, with their sylvan homes, have vanished, too,
The untamed race that 'neath their shadows grew.
No more the red man treads his hunting-grounds,
No more, amid the hills, his war-whoop sounds;
Gone, like the woods, that were of him a part,
Each blow that fell'd them struck the red man's heart.
Of far-advancing empire, falls the pride
Of those primeval woods that, echoing, rang,
When loud and clear th' exulting pilgrims sang;
And, with their sylvan homes, have vanished, too,
The untamed race that 'neath their shadows grew.
No more the red man treads his hunting-grounds,
No more, amid the hills, his war-whoop sounds;
Gone, like the woods, that were of him a part,
Each blow that fell'd them struck the red man's heart.
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Time pauses once again! the pilgrims sleep;
The hills they loved their peaceful ashes keep;
A mighty change has come across the face
Of Nature: vainly, now, we seek to trace
The towering forests; where the war-fire blazed,
The village church in simple pride is raised;
And where the waters slept in peace profound,
The noisy mill-wheel whirls its ceaseless round;
But on the breeze a muttering is heard;
With heavy sounds the quiet air is stirred;
Wild battle's tocsin breaks upon the ear;
And rolling drums, and sounds of strife and fear,
And shouts, and clashing arms, proclaim that war is here!
The hills they loved their peaceful ashes keep;
A mighty change has come across the face
Of Nature: vainly, now, we seek to trace
The towering forests; where the war-fire blazed,
The village church in simple pride is raised;
And where the waters slept in peace profound,
The noisy mill-wheel whirls its ceaseless round;
But on the breeze a muttering is heard;
With heavy sounds the quiet air is stirred;
Wild battle's tocsin breaks upon the ear;
And rolling drums, and sounds of strife and fear,
And shouts, and clashing arms, proclaim that war is here!
What deeds were done yon hill might soothly tell,
Where he, the first, the morning-martyr, fell;
What deeds were done there needs no gifted power
To bring to memory in this sacred hour;—
The pilgrims' children bend no servile knee!—
They freely tread the soil their fathers left them free.
Where he, the first, the morning-martyr, fell;
What deeds were done there needs no gifted power
To bring to memory in this sacred hour;—
The pilgrims' children bend no servile knee!—
They freely tread the soil their fathers left them free.
Old Massachusetts! dear-loved name! how oft
The rude backwoodsman's honest heart grows soft
As childhood's, when across his yearning soul
The visions of his happy boyhood roll.
Again he treads thy hills; again the sound
Of old, familiar voices breathes around
Like music in a dream; again he hears
The babbling brooklet murmur in his ears,
As if it called him back; the nodding trees,
That rock so lightly in the summer breeze,
Seem beck'ning him beneath their happy shade;—
He sees them all—hill, valley, forest, glade!
He hears each much-loved sound; the whippoorwill's
Sad, melancholy music deeper thrills;
The lark's sweet voice swells near him, and the hum
Of insects, and the many sounds that come,
So softly mingled, from the woody dell,—
The song of falling streams,—the tinkling bell
Of home-returning flocks;—he hears them all,—
Deep in his soul the much-loved accents fall;—
And when the traveller at his humble door
Appears, to claim his shelter and his store,
His heart again its happy boyhood lives,—
And, while, with kindly welcoming, he gives
The ready hand, he cries, with heart elate,
“God bless ye, stranger! how 's the Old Bay State?”
The rude backwoodsman's honest heart grows soft
As childhood's, when across his yearning soul
The visions of his happy boyhood roll.
Again he treads thy hills; again the sound
Of old, familiar voices breathes around
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The babbling brooklet murmur in his ears,
As if it called him back; the nodding trees,
That rock so lightly in the summer breeze,
Seem beck'ning him beneath their happy shade;—
He sees them all—hill, valley, forest, glade!
He hears each much-loved sound; the whippoorwill's
Sad, melancholy music deeper thrills;
The lark's sweet voice swells near him, and the hum
Of insects, and the many sounds that come,
So softly mingled, from the woody dell,—
The song of falling streams,—the tinkling bell
Of home-returning flocks;—he hears them all,—
Deep in his soul the much-loved accents fall;—
And when the traveller at his humble door
Appears, to claim his shelter and his store,
His heart again its happy boyhood lives,—
And, while, with kindly welcoming, he gives
The ready hand, he cries, with heart elate,
“God bless ye, stranger! how 's the Old Bay State?”
The “Old Bay State!”—The ocean wanderer,
Whose callous heart naught else might haply stir,
Will fondly turn to thee, when Memory, true
To Nature, brings, like life itself, to view,
Each long-forgotten object, in the truth,
The beauty, and the freshness of its youth,—
Ere the warm breathings of his life, long past,
Were frozen to thickest haze, by sorrow's wintry blast!
Whose callous heart naught else might haply stir,
Will fondly turn to thee, when Memory, true
To Nature, brings, like life itself, to view,
Each long-forgotten object, in the truth,
The beauty, and the freshness of its youth,—
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Were frozen to thickest haze, by sorrow's wintry blast!
He sees them—each loved form:—the old dark wood;
The rustic bowers, so beautiful, though rude;
The stream where oft he launched his tiny boat,
Upon its sparkling wave in pride to float,
And fancied that to rove the distant main
Were joy—(alas! he'll ne'er dream thus again;)
The waterfall, where oft, in childish glee,
He watched the waters leaping wild and free;
The old farm-house; the temple, where the prayers
Of simple hearts, untainted with the cares,
The strifes, and woes of life, went up,—all these,
With childhood's very eyes, his spirit sees;
And, from the cold realities of life,
His soul reviews the hours when childhood's dreams were rife!
The rustic bowers, so beautiful, though rude;
The stream where oft he launched his tiny boat,
Upon its sparkling wave in pride to float,
And fancied that to rove the distant main
Were joy—(alas! he'll ne'er dream thus again;)
The waterfall, where oft, in childish glee,
He watched the waters leaping wild and free;
The old farm-house; the temple, where the prayers
Of simple hearts, untainted with the cares,
The strifes, and woes of life, went up,—all these,
With childhood's very eyes, his spirit sees;
And, from the cold realities of life,
His soul reviews the hours when childhood's dreams were rife!
We love thee, Massachusetts! for thou art
Our mother, and of our own selves a part;
We love the stern, unbent, unbending race
Who proudly own thy hills their dwelling-place;
Rough sons of toil are they—their lips untaught
To check the passage of their honest thought;
Untaught are they to bend the stubborn brow—
'Tis to the monarch Mind alone they bow!
God is above them,—Heaven's smile is lent,
To teach their spirits Heaven's joy—content!
Their rural labors fill the quiet day,
And when the summer's sun has passed away,
The cheerful group, around their simple meal,
Thank God for all, and what they utter, feel.
The toil-knit limbs, that, sinewy and lithe,
Held the firm plough or swayed the pond'rous scythe,
Scattered the seed upon the furrowy plain,
Or bound in glowing sheaves the golden grain,—
Still, with the zeal that new exertion courts,
Enlist, unwearied, in the evening's sports;
The merry jest goes round; the ball is struck;
The quoit is hurled, or thrown the ringing duck;
Perchance his rustic flute the swain will trill,
Or voice, that shows more minstrelsy than skill;
The clarinet is pitched an octave higher—
The violin is tuned, for Sunday's choir;—
And thus glides smoothly on the summer's eve,
No gloom to cloud their brows—no care their hearts to grieve.
Our mother, and of our own selves a part;
We love the stern, unbent, unbending race
Who proudly own thy hills their dwelling-place;
Rough sons of toil are they—their lips untaught
To check the passage of their honest thought;
Untaught are they to bend the stubborn brow—
'Tis to the monarch Mind alone they bow!
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To teach their spirits Heaven's joy—content!
Their rural labors fill the quiet day,
And when the summer's sun has passed away,
The cheerful group, around their simple meal,
Thank God for all, and what they utter, feel.
The toil-knit limbs, that, sinewy and lithe,
Held the firm plough or swayed the pond'rous scythe,
Scattered the seed upon the furrowy plain,
Or bound in glowing sheaves the golden grain,—
Still, with the zeal that new exertion courts,
Enlist, unwearied, in the evening's sports;
The merry jest goes round; the ball is struck;
The quoit is hurled, or thrown the ringing duck;
Perchance his rustic flute the swain will trill,
Or voice, that shows more minstrelsy than skill;
The clarinet is pitched an octave higher—
The violin is tuned, for Sunday's choir;—
And thus glides smoothly on the summer's eve,
No gloom to cloud their brows—no care their hearts to grieve.
Thus, too, when wintry storms across the sky
Rush swiftly, pass their hours as gaily by:
The few light labors o'er, the village-school
Receives the sturdy youth beneath its rule;
The startling task is conned, and conned again,
Till some bright thought evolves the answer plain:
Then, freed at last, the full-grown urchins form
In mimic battle 'mid the driving storm;
The well-pressed missile, hurled with practised force,
Meets many a laughing visage in its course;
And reddened cheeks and snow-clad backs proclaim
The ups and downs in this small field of fame.
Rush swiftly, pass their hours as gaily by:
The few light labors o'er, the village-school
Receives the sturdy youth beneath its rule;
The startling task is conned, and conned again,
Till some bright thought evolves the answer plain:
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In mimic battle 'mid the driving storm;
The well-pressed missile, hurled with practised force,
Meets many a laughing visage in its course;
And reddened cheeks and snow-clad backs proclaim
The ups and downs in this small field of fame.
Now, where the cheerful fire reflects the glow
Of faces clouded by no trace of woe,—
Bound by no rules of cold and polished life,
Each heart with Nature's truthfulness is rife.
Quick as the fancy falls the blameless word,
(For by no carping critic's ear 'tis heard;)
Unknown, unrecked of, fashion's heartless mirth,
Theirs is the gladness of the homestead hearth.
The well-stuffed arm-chair, in the warmest side,
Is placed for “Grandsire” 'mid the circle wide;
The “oft-told tale” some urchin begs to hear,
And wonders why the old man drops a tear!—
Climbs on his knee, and waits, with anxious look,
To hear the story sad of “Bloody Brook;”
Trembles in childish awe at Bunker's tale,
Or at the name of Bennington grows pale;
Weeps at the sufferings of that valiant band
Who fought and famished for their native land;
And (while with breathless awe his heart is thrill'd)
Smiles through his tears, to hear—his “grandsire” was not killed!
Of faces clouded by no trace of woe,—
Bound by no rules of cold and polished life,
Each heart with Nature's truthfulness is rife.
Quick as the fancy falls the blameless word,
(For by no carping critic's ear 'tis heard;)
Unknown, unrecked of, fashion's heartless mirth,
Theirs is the gladness of the homestead hearth.
The well-stuffed arm-chair, in the warmest side,
Is placed for “Grandsire” 'mid the circle wide;
The “oft-told tale” some urchin begs to hear,
And wonders why the old man drops a tear!—
Climbs on his knee, and waits, with anxious look,
To hear the story sad of “Bloody Brook;”
Trembles in childish awe at Bunker's tale,
Or at the name of Bennington grows pale;
Weeps at the sufferings of that valiant band
Who fought and famished for their native land;
And (while with breathless awe his heart is thrill'd)
Smiles through his tears, to hear—his “grandsire” was not killed!
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Nor these alone their fireside sweets enjoy—
The garrulous old man, the listening boy;—
There, at the table scrupulously neat,
The careful farmer pores his weekly sheet;
The mother plies her knitting cheeringly,
And prattles with the prattler at her knee;
The blushing damsel, with coquettish grace,
The plough-boy's nimble fingers strives to trace,
As o'er his slate the pattering pencil glides,—
And now subtracts with him, and now divides;
Till some dark problem (never guessed till now)
Springs, like Jove's daughter, from a well-rubbed brow.
The garrulous old man, the listening boy;—
There, at the table scrupulously neat,
The careful farmer pores his weekly sheet;
The mother plies her knitting cheeringly,
And prattles with the prattler at her knee;
The blushing damsel, with coquettish grace,
The plough-boy's nimble fingers strives to trace,
As o'er his slate the pattering pencil glides,—
And now subtracts with him, and now divides;
Till some dark problem (never guessed till now)
Springs, like Jove's daughter, from a well-rubbed brow.
Perchance some neighbor, in the game deep-lored,
Drops in, to challenge forth the checquer-board;
The varied men are ranged in order due—
A button here, or barley-corn, in lieu
Of that long-lost, or this but lately gone,
Till, all prepared, the dubious game goes on.
Drops in, to challenge forth the checquer-board;
The varied men are ranged in order due—
A button here, or barley-corn, in lieu
Of that long-lost, or this but lately gone,
Till, all prepared, the dubious game goes on.
Thus glide the hours—unless, perhaps, a guest—
Some traveler, from the wide and wondrous West,
Or storm-tossed rover on the mighty main—
Return'd to view his much-loved home again,—
A welcome seeks and finds beside the fire,
And deals his lore to every heart's desire.
The youngsters, with dilated eyes, draw near
New stories of the mystic deep to hear:
Of bloody shark—of mountain whale—perchance
Of phantom ship, or merman's merry dance;
Of ice-bergs, water-spouts, and marvels strange
Those only meet who on the ocean range;—
All these are told—with more than actor's skill—
Till even the “grandsire” vows—“it beats old Bunker Hill.”
Some traveler, from the wide and wondrous West,
Or storm-tossed rover on the mighty main—
Return'd to view his much-loved home again,—
A welcome seeks and finds beside the fire,
And deals his lore to every heart's desire.
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New stories of the mystic deep to hear:
Of bloody shark—of mountain whale—perchance
Of phantom ship, or merman's merry dance;
Of ice-bergs, water-spouts, and marvels strange
Those only meet who on the ocean range;—
All these are told—with more than actor's skill—
Till even the “grandsire” vows—“it beats old Bunker Hill.”
These, dear-loved Massachusetts! these are thine—
The joys that cluster round fair Freedom's shrine;
The sunny joys, that light the care-worn breast—
The quiet joys that yield the heart its rest:
These are thy birth-right and thy children's dower—
Thy glory and thy strength, thy beauty and thy power!
The joys that cluster round fair Freedom's shrine;
The sunny joys, that light the care-worn breast—
The quiet joys that yield the heart its rest:
These are thy birth-right and thy children's dower—
Thy glory and thy strength, thy beauty and thy power!
Mother of Freedom! from whose glowing breast
Sprang the first nurture of the boundless West!
Still, at the thunders of thy battle-hill,
Iberia's slaves with new emotions thrill;
Still do the echoings of thy war-cry float
Where rings the trumpet of the Suliote;
Still, where the Ægean laves the sacred shore,
Thy name commingles with its ceaseless roar;
Still, where Bozzaris mocked at tyrant's thrones,
Thy Webster's voice o'erleaps the bar of zones—
That mighty voice which panoplied the weak,
When, like a clarion, rang his pleadings for the Greek!
Sprang the first nurture of the boundless West!
Still, at the thunders of thy battle-hill,
Iberia's slaves with new emotions thrill;
Still do the echoings of thy war-cry float
Where rings the trumpet of the Suliote;
Still, where the Ægean laves the sacred shore,
Thy name commingles with its ceaseless roar;
Still, where Bozzaris mocked at tyrant's thrones,
Thy Webster's voice o'erleaps the bar of zones—
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When, like a clarion, rang his pleadings for the Greek!
Siberia knows thee—where the unconquered Pole
Lives in the freedom of his chainless soul;
Where the bleak winds, in mockery of his woe,
Permit not even the exile's tears to flow,—
Siberia's wilds have echoed to the name
Of that fair State, where Freedom's altar-flame
Blazed to the sky, the beacon-light of fame.
And, mingled with the thought of Poland's fate—
Mingled with his unquenched, undying hate
Of Russia's tyrant, and of Russia's crime,—
Swells the high hope that lights all future time:—
The hope that they who, first of all the world,
Gave to the Pole his glorious flag, unfurled,
May hail that banner, beaming from afar,
Above a rescued land—above a conquered Czar.
Lives in the freedom of his chainless soul;
Where the bleak winds, in mockery of his woe,
Permit not even the exile's tears to flow,—
Siberia's wilds have echoed to the name
Of that fair State, where Freedom's altar-flame
Blazed to the sky, the beacon-light of fame.
And, mingled with the thought of Poland's fate—
Mingled with his unquenched, undying hate
Of Russia's tyrant, and of Russia's crime,—
Swells the high hope that lights all future time:—
The hope that they who, first of all the world,
Gave to the Pole his glorious flag, unfurled,
May hail that banner, beaming from afar,
Above a rescued land—above a conquered Czar.
Avaria knows thee, and her despot-king
Plucks at the lessons from thy breast that spring:
The glorious seed that ripened in thy soil
Yields generous harvest to the stranger's toil;
The deathless knowledge-tree thou gavest root,
Even in a tyrant's land has borne immortal fruit.
Plucks at the lessons from thy breast that spring:
The glorious seed that ripened in thy soil
Yields generous harvest to the stranger's toil;
The deathless knowledge-tree thou gavest root,
Even in a tyrant's land has borne immortal fruit.
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Old Massachusetts! fare thee ever well!
Thou hast in thy old hills a mighty spell,
To draw thy distant children; and their hearts—
Or be they mingling in the crowded marts
Of Europe's cities, or on Afric's plains
Of burning sand, or 'mid the crumbling fanes
Of pagan Asia,—still will yearn for thee—
Home of their childhood! home of Liberty!
And shall the glorious Fourth's effulgent light
Behold them on the Alpine mountain height,
Or ploughing 'mid the waves of polar seas,—
Still will their anthems mount upon the breeze;
Their hearts will hail fair Freedom, and the spot
Where Freedom's soul abides—where slaves are not;—
Where stands the battle Hill—the time-worn Hall;
Where Freedom woke to life, and burst was Slavery's thrall!
Thou hast in thy old hills a mighty spell,
To draw thy distant children; and their hearts—
Or be they mingling in the crowded marts
Of Europe's cities, or on Afric's plains
Of burning sand, or 'mid the crumbling fanes
Of pagan Asia,—still will yearn for thee—
Home of their childhood! home of Liberty!
And shall the glorious Fourth's effulgent light
Behold them on the Alpine mountain height,
Or ploughing 'mid the waves of polar seas,—
Still will their anthems mount upon the breeze;
Their hearts will hail fair Freedom, and the spot
Where Freedom's soul abides—where slaves are not;—
Where stands the battle Hill—the time-worn Hall;
Where Freedom woke to life, and burst was Slavery's thrall!
360
THE NATIONS.
HARP of young Freedom! whose far-echoing wires
Thrill to the music of th' eternal choirs!
Swift, at thy summons, from their silent sleep
Within my heart, the long-pent thoughts will leap;
Mingling with mine own soul, each seraph-note
Bids it in holiest numbers upward float.
Now, in soft, silver accents, down the stream
Of Time—like music in a twilight dream—
My spirit hears an echo of the strain
That rose from hill and vale, from wood and plain,
When the young morning-stars together sang,
And with a joyful shout the laughing mountains rang.
Thrill to the music of th' eternal choirs!
Swift, at thy summons, from their silent sleep
Within my heart, the long-pent thoughts will leap;
Mingling with mine own soul, each seraph-note
Bids it in holiest numbers upward float.
Now, in soft, silver accents, down the stream
Of Time—like music in a twilight dream—
My spirit hears an echo of the strain
That rose from hill and vale, from wood and plain,
When the young morning-stars together sang,
And with a joyful shout the laughing mountains rang.
It breathes of Freedom! Freedom's joyous birth
Lent its first accents to the silent earth;
Taught the rude savage of his viewless soul,
And bade it from his lips in language roll;
Clothed with a mighty power the rushing throng
Of thoughts, until his heart gushed forth in song.
Mankind was nursed in liberty! the warm,
Young heart of Being drew its primal form
From Freedom's mould; the deep and noble draught
Of mountain-airs; the leaping rills, that laughed
In wantonness of joy; the eagle's flight,
Piercing, impetuous, through the walls of light;
The wild, deep forest-voice; the thunder's tone,—
Woke in man's emulous soul the music of his own.
Lent its first accents to the silent earth;
Taught the rude savage of his viewless soul,
And bade it from his lips in language roll;
Clothed with a mighty power the rushing throng
Of thoughts, until his heart gushed forth in song.
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Young heart of Being drew its primal form
From Freedom's mould; the deep and noble draught
Of mountain-airs; the leaping rills, that laughed
In wantonness of joy; the eagle's flight,
Piercing, impetuous, through the walls of light;
The wild, deep forest-voice; the thunder's tone,—
Woke in man's emulous soul the music of his own.
Nor hush'd the strain! around each mountain brow
Thunders and swells th' exulting anthem now;
Amid our vales the voiceful music thrills—
Across our plains—upon our templed hills;
O'er our wild waters, where the morning-beam
Wakes, 'mid the breakers' roar, the soaring eagle's scream.
Thunders and swells th' exulting anthem now;
Amid our vales the voiceful music thrills—
Across our plains—upon our templed hills;
O'er our wild waters, where the morning-beam
Wakes, 'mid the breakers' roar, the soaring eagle's scream.
Bird of our land! whose bright, undazzled gaze
Drinks in the fiery day-star's burning rays!
Now, as thy broadening pinions cleave the skies,
Hearest thou not the exulting anthem rise?
Lo! with his wild eye sweeping earth and wave,
Circling, he mounts the orient architrave;
Amid the heavens he marks thy glorious flags,
O Freedom! waving from the mountain-crags;
A million meteors, flashing in the light;
A million voices, swelling from each height;
A million hearts strained up; a nation's song
Arising on the breeze in accents strong;—
The voice of California's boundless woods;
The surging swell of Mississippi's floods;
Niagara's deep-toned chorus, and the roar
Of Ocean's hymn, along thy rocky shore,
From Florida's far reef to ice-bound Labrador!
Drinks in the fiery day-star's burning rays!
Now, as thy broadening pinions cleave the skies,
Hearest thou not the exulting anthem rise?
Lo! with his wild eye sweeping earth and wave,
Circling, he mounts the orient architrave;
Amid the heavens he marks thy glorious flags,
O Freedom! waving from the mountain-crags;
A million meteors, flashing in the light;
A million voices, swelling from each height;
362
Arising on the breeze in accents strong;—
The voice of California's boundless woods;
The surging swell of Mississippi's floods;
Niagara's deep-toned chorus, and the roar
Of Ocean's hymn, along thy rocky shore,
From Florida's far reef to ice-bound Labrador!
'Tis thine own land, fair Freedom! where anew
Thy phœnix-form burst forth to mortal view!
From the new earth upspringing to the skies,
Here didst thou greet the world's awaking eyes!
On the wild mountain-breeze thy clarion rang,
And forth, to arms! an answering nation sprang.
Then, o'er th' Atlantic, at the mighty roll
Of Freedom's war-drums, shrank each tyrant's soul;
In their dark caves the despots of the earth
Heard the deep shout that told of Freedom's birth!
Trembling they heard it, and their golden thrones
Shook, at the echoings of those deep war-tones;
Slaves heard it, too; beneath his iron thrall,
Beat the stirred bosom of the wondering Gaul;
Italia's steel, within the pale moonlight,
Glittered, impatient, for th' avenging fight;
Hispania's serfs forgot their servile chain,
And from their panting souls swelled forth an answering strain!
Thy phœnix-form burst forth to mortal view!
From the new earth upspringing to the skies,
Here didst thou greet the world's awaking eyes!
On the wild mountain-breeze thy clarion rang,
And forth, to arms! an answering nation sprang.
Then, o'er th' Atlantic, at the mighty roll
Of Freedom's war-drums, shrank each tyrant's soul;
In their dark caves the despots of the earth
Heard the deep shout that told of Freedom's birth!
Trembling they heard it, and their golden thrones
Shook, at the echoings of those deep war-tones;
Slaves heard it, too; beneath his iron thrall,
Beat the stirred bosom of the wondering Gaul;
Italia's steel, within the pale moonlight,
Glittered, impatient, for th' avenging fight;
Hispania's serfs forgot their servile chain,
And from their panting souls swelled forth an answering strain!
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Leave we the freedom-tree, to mark, awhile,
Where the dark upas-growth of power and guile
Poisons the fountains of the olden lands,
And twines its leaves in soul-enchaining bands.
The Nations are around me! in their might,
Monarch and priest sweep on before my sight;—
Sweep on in crimson glory, o'er the wrecks
Of truth—o'er gasping hearts and bending necks!
Where the dark upas-growth of power and guile
Poisons the fountains of the olden lands,
And twines its leaves in soul-enchaining bands.
The Nations are around me! in their might,
Monarch and priest sweep on before my sight;—
Sweep on in crimson glory, o'er the wrecks
Of truth—o'er gasping hearts and bending necks!
I may not now, with dulcet Pleasure's touch,
Strike the soft harp with tenderness o'ermuch;
Not now the strains of love shall wake its strings,
Nor song of dove-eyed Peace around it flings;
No whispered Fancy in sweet music floats:
Stern, truthful Clio strikes the jarring notes;—
Across the crashing octave of all time—
The world's sweet Infancy, its Youth, its Prime!
Strike the soft harp with tenderness o'ermuch;
Not now the strains of love shall wake its strings,
Nor song of dove-eyed Peace around it flings;
No whispered Fancy in sweet music floats:
Stern, truthful Clio strikes the jarring notes;—
Across the crashing octave of all time—
The world's sweet Infancy, its Youth, its Prime!
Far in the Vista sinks my soul!—Back! back!
Where the invisible ages leave no track!
Back, where from Babel's gates outpoured her crowds;
Back, where old Baalbek's temples smote the clouds;
Back, to bright Nineveh—to Tadmor's walls,
The shrines of Thebes, and Memphis' swarming halls.
Where the invisible ages leave no track!
Back, where from Babel's gates outpoured her crowds;
Back, where old Baalbek's temples smote the clouds;
Back, to bright Nineveh—to Tadmor's walls,
The shrines of Thebes, and Memphis' swarming halls.
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Forth to the day once more—the Present's day!
Phantom-like flit the shrines and thrones away;
Behold! upon the desert's burning heaps,
Where round yon fallen tower the adder creeps;
Behold! amid that temple's ruined pride—
O'er the crushed altar—where the jackals glide;
Mark ye where once a woman's daring hand
Swept the invading despot from her land,—
There the green lizard creeps, the scorpion crawls,
Around the levelled shrines, the shivered walls;
Behold! where Tyoth's gaze explored the skies,
The wandering nomad's humble tents arise;
And where the sunbeam Memnon's strain awoke
The hemlock's deadly roots a desert fountain choke.
Phantom-like flit the shrines and thrones away;
Behold! upon the desert's burning heaps,
Where round yon fallen tower the adder creeps;
Behold! amid that temple's ruined pride—
O'er the crushed altar—where the jackals glide;
Mark ye where once a woman's daring hand
Swept the invading despot from her land,—
There the green lizard creeps, the scorpion crawls,
Around the levelled shrines, the shivered walls;
Behold! where Tyoth's gaze explored the skies,
The wandering nomad's humble tents arise;
And where the sunbeam Memnon's strain awoke
The hemlock's deadly roots a desert fountain choke.
And this the lesson—that the might of all
That man from vast Creation's fields can call;—
All that he proudly rears—must pass away!
The monarch of Creation is Decay!
That man from vast Creation's fields can call;—
All that he proudly rears—must pass away!
The monarch of Creation is Decay!
Egypt! the Womb and Tomb of mightiest lore!
Egypt! whose giant guardians, gazing o'er
Thy desert plains, bring back the buried Past,
With all its awful shadows round it cast!—
Say, did thy Pharaohs from their cerements leap,
When Gaul's deep thunder broke upon their sleep?
Thro' the thick-gathered mists of withered years,
Saw they the Corsican's embattled spears?
Ah! vain were thunders of united zones—
Vain the world-echoing requiem of thrones—
To burst the sleep of death that over all
Thy Memory and thy Might hangs like a funeral pall!
Egypt! whose giant guardians, gazing o'er
Thy desert plains, bring back the buried Past,
With all its awful shadows round it cast!—
Say, did thy Pharaohs from their cerements leap,
When Gaul's deep thunder broke upon their sleep?
Thro' the thick-gathered mists of withered years,
Saw they the Corsican's embattled spears?
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Vain the world-echoing requiem of thrones—
To burst the sleep of death that over all
Thy Memory and thy Might hangs like a funeral pall!
Rome! thou vast shade of what was once a world,
Down from thy mighty throne in madness hurled!—
Still doth thy giant heart convulsive start,
Like some huge corpse beneath the surgeon's art;
Still, 'mid the mould of his self-hollowed grave,
Throbs, and leaps up, and pants, th' awaking slave!—
And, like the fiery mountain's deep-drawn breath,
Ere, with a mighty heave, it vomits death,—
In thy swelled soul have sunk thy woes and shames;—
Shall they not burst, O Rome! burst forth in Freedom's flames?
Down from thy mighty throne in madness hurled!—
Still doth thy giant heart convulsive start,
Like some huge corpse beneath the surgeon's art;
Still, 'mid the mould of his self-hollowed grave,
Throbs, and leaps up, and pants, th' awaking slave!—
And, like the fiery mountain's deep-drawn breath,
Ere, with a mighty heave, it vomits death,—
In thy swelled soul have sunk thy woes and shames;—
Shall they not burst, O Rome! burst forth in Freedom's flames?
Ay! like a lava torrent—o'er the fanes
And palaces of those who forged thy chains!
Ay! like a lava-torrent, sweeping down
Cross, crook, and mitre,—sceptre, throne, and crown!—
Till, from the burning fields, to greet the skies,
Freedom's new Coliseum o'er buried thrones shall rise!
Where is Germania?—from their slumbers deep,
Will not thy buried sires start forth to weep?
Liveth the spirit of old Herrmann now,
When the stiff German necks in bondage bow?—
Bondage! a deadlier bondage, than the yoke
Of Roman power thy bold Arminius broke.
Not now with iron chains thy tyrants bind:
Their manacles enwreath th' awaking mind;
Their yoke is on the soul, to bind it down,
Till its dull gaze is level with a crown.
In thy deep heart, O Germany! whose life
With god-like aspirations still is rife,—
Whose heaven-encircling vision breaks the clouds
Of Time, and dazzles Ages from their shrouds;
In thy deep heart, O, lives there not a gleam,
Of German light, in radiance now to beam?—
Then, from thy long-bowed soul the fetters shake!
From thy long sleep of death indignant wake!
Cast on thine Herrmann's shield of Truth and Right!
Shout Winkelried's loud summons to the fight!—
“Make way for Liberty!” and burst the slavish night!
And palaces of those who forged thy chains!
Ay! like a lava-torrent, sweeping down
Cross, crook, and mitre,—sceptre, throne, and crown!—
Till, from the burning fields, to greet the skies,
Freedom's new Coliseum o'er buried thrones shall rise!
366
Will not thy buried sires start forth to weep?
Liveth the spirit of old Herrmann now,
When the stiff German necks in bondage bow?—
Bondage! a deadlier bondage, than the yoke
Of Roman power thy bold Arminius broke.
Not now with iron chains thy tyrants bind:
Their manacles enwreath th' awaking mind;
Their yoke is on the soul, to bind it down,
Till its dull gaze is level with a crown.
In thy deep heart, O Germany! whose life
With god-like aspirations still is rife,—
Whose heaven-encircling vision breaks the clouds
Of Time, and dazzles Ages from their shrouds;
In thy deep heart, O, lives there not a gleam,
Of German light, in radiance now to beam?—
Then, from thy long-bowed soul the fetters shake!
From thy long sleep of death indignant wake!
Cast on thine Herrmann's shield of Truth and Right!
Shout Winkelried's loud summons to the fight!—
“Make way for Liberty!” and burst the slavish night!
Spain! must thy wrongs through all thy being last?
Spain! are thy golden days forever passed?
Shall not a Cid spring up, to lead thee on,
Till chains are snapped and Freedom's peace is won?
Shall not some new Pelayo's war-cry swell?
Some new Alphonso rise,
thy foes to quell?
Not till the last crowned robber bites the dust;
Not till is stemmed the tide of priestly lust;
Not till the cowl and ermine crown the pile
Of Freedom's altar-offering,—shall her smile
Shine forth on thee, Hispania! not till then,
The knife shall seek its sheath, and peace walk forth again!
Spain! are thy golden days forever passed?
Shall not a Cid spring up, to lead thee on,
Till chains are snapped and Freedom's peace is won?
Shall not some new Pelayo's war-cry swell?
On the defeat of Roderick, the last Gothic king of Spain, by Tarik the Saracen, and subsequent overrunning of that country by the Moors, a small but gallant band of patriots, under the leadership of Pelagius, or Pelayo, held out against the invaders, maintaining themselves in valleys and caverns, and eventually founding the realm of Asturias.
Some new Alphonso rise,
Alphonso the Chaste, a descendant of Pelayo, was the first Christian ruler in Northern Spain who refused to pay tribute to the Moors, after it had been exacted for more than a century. Under his leadership, the Spaniards drove the Saracens from Asturias and Navarre, and compelled them to limit their dominion to Granada and Cordova, whence they were afterwards finally expelled by Ferdinand and Isabella.
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Not till is stemmed the tide of priestly lust;
Not till the cowl and ermine crown the pile
Of Freedom's altar-offering,—shall her smile
Shine forth on thee, Hispania! not till then,
The knife shall seek its sheath, and peace walk forth again!
England! proud despot of the chainless sea—
Long have the palsied nations bent to thee;
England! whose banners on each ocean float;
Whose language, from the cannon's brazen throat
Around the wide earth crashing, speaks thy might,
And drowns the pleading voice of ruth and right,—
Lo! thou art highest in the mount of fame!
Nations have paled and perished at thy name!
Still on thy temples beams the fadeless crown
Of thy unperishing and old renown;
Still on thy proud escutcheon brightly beam
The warrior's boast, the patriot's glowing theme:
Forth from their glorious graves, a mighty throng,
Pour thy old dauntless chivalry along;—
Up, from the burning plains of Palestine;
Up, from the borders of the rushing Rhine;
Up, from the banks of Guadalquivir's tide,
From Gaul's broad battle-graves, and from the ocean wide.
Long have the palsied nations bent to thee;
England! whose banners on each ocean float;
Whose language, from the cannon's brazen throat
Around the wide earth crashing, speaks thy might,
And drowns the pleading voice of ruth and right,—
Lo! thou art highest in the mount of fame!
Nations have paled and perished at thy name!
Still on thy temples beams the fadeless crown
Of thy unperishing and old renown;
Still on thy proud escutcheon brightly beam
The warrior's boast, the patriot's glowing theme:
Forth from their glorious graves, a mighty throng,
Pour thy old dauntless chivalry along;—
Up, from the burning plains of Palestine;
Up, from the borders of the rushing Rhine;
Up, from the banks of Guadalquivir's tide,
From Gaul's broad battle-graves, and from the ocean wide.
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A grand and proud array! the iron race
Who gave thee 'mid the mightiest a place.
Yet vain their glorious and far-spreading fame;
Vain is the memory of each valiant name;
Vain are thy trophies and thy laurel-wreath,
To shield thee, England! from dishonor's death!
The memory of thy tyrant lust obscures
The brightness of a thousand Agincourts;
Thy grasping tyranny, thy broken trust,
Will shroud a thousand Cressys in the dust!
Ireland's fire-blasted fields, and ruined hearths,
Shall dim the lustre of thy triumph-paths;
India's crushed millions, in a wailing cry,
From many a crimson death-field rising high,
Shall drown the trumpet-note that Victory blew
O'er Nile's ensanguined wave, or deathful Waterloo.
Who gave thee 'mid the mightiest a place.
Yet vain their glorious and far-spreading fame;
Vain is the memory of each valiant name;
Vain are thy trophies and thy laurel-wreath,
To shield thee, England! from dishonor's death!
The memory of thy tyrant lust obscures
The brightness of a thousand Agincourts;
Thy grasping tyranny, thy broken trust,
Will shroud a thousand Cressys in the dust!
Ireland's fire-blasted fields, and ruined hearths,
Shall dim the lustre of thy triumph-paths;
India's crushed millions, in a wailing cry,
From many a crimson death-field rising high,
Shall drown the trumpet-note that Victory blew
O'er Nile's ensanguined wave, or deathful Waterloo.
Poland! thou art not fall'n! thy tyrants' wrong,
Heaped round thee, shall become an ægis strong,
To shelter thee when beats the storm once more;
Poland! thine iron ordeal shall be o'er.
By the unnumbered death-cries that arose
Where the bright Vistula in stillness flows!
By all the woes of Warsaw's martyr'd band,
Who last for Freedom raised the battle-brand!
By glorious Sobieski's deathless name!
And by those dear and patriot souls who came
To our new freedom-feast—Kosciusko brave,
And HE who found with freedom but a grave!
By these, and by the uncounted pray'rs that rise,
Unceasingly, to chill Siberia's skies!—
Poland shall live—shall rise! O Mighty God!
Hear thou those soul-sent pray'rs, and break the oppressor's rod!
Heaped round thee, shall become an ægis strong,
To shelter thee when beats the storm once more;
Poland! thine iron ordeal shall be o'er.
By the unnumbered death-cries that arose
Where the bright Vistula in stillness flows!
By all the woes of Warsaw's martyr'd band,
Who last for Freedom raised the battle-brand!
369
And by those dear and patriot souls who came
To our new freedom-feast—Kosciusko brave,
And HE who found with freedom but a grave!
By these, and by the uncounted pray'rs that rise,
Unceasingly, to chill Siberia's skies!—
Poland shall live—shall rise! O Mighty God!
Hear thou those soul-sent pray'rs, and break the oppressor's rod!
A dark and ominous cloud is in the North;
From Russia's wastes a prophet-voice goes forth!—
Goes forth to warn old Europe—but in vain!
Yet what has been may, haply, be again!
Time was, when o'er the necks of nations tranc'd
In slavery, the Assyrian's charger pranc'd;
Time was, when he who overran one world
Wept that his conquering banner must be furled;
Time was, when on the huge old Alpine rock
The Carthaginian's thunders spent their shock;
Time was, when Roma's matricidal son
Leaped madly o'er his country's Rubicon;—
And where is old Assyria? where is Greece?
Say, did the sun of Carthage set in peace?
Where is old Rome? O Nations! know ye this!—
They lived—they rose—they fell! Time was—Time is!
From Russia's wastes a prophet-voice goes forth!—
Goes forth to warn old Europe—but in vain!
Yet what has been may, haply, be again!
Time was, when o'er the necks of nations tranc'd
In slavery, the Assyrian's charger pranc'd;
Time was, when he who overran one world
Wept that his conquering banner must be furled;
Time was, when on the huge old Alpine rock
The Carthaginian's thunders spent their shock;
Time was, when Roma's matricidal son
Leaped madly o'er his country's Rubicon;—
And where is old Assyria? where is Greece?
Say, did the sun of Carthage set in peace?
Where is old Rome? O Nations! know ye this!—
They lived—they rose—they fell! Time was—Time is!
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And such may be thy fate, O Europe! thus,
When swarming from his deserts pours the Russ,
Thine ears may hear, too late, the iron tread
Of Asia's hordes above thy countless dead!
Ye saw when Gaul's defenceless capital
Heard on her parapet the Ukraine-call;
Ye saw when, o'er the ravaged fields of France,
Gleamed in the reddened sky the Cossack's lance,—
And ye may mark, from Moscow's crimson fire,
A flame enwreath your homes in one red funeral-pyre!
When swarming from his deserts pours the Russ,
Thine ears may hear, too late, the iron tread
Of Asia's hordes above thy countless dead!
Ye saw when Gaul's defenceless capital
Heard on her parapet the Ukraine-call;
Ye saw when, o'er the ravaged fields of France,
Gleamed in the reddened sky the Cossack's lance,—
And ye may mark, from Moscow's crimson fire,
A flame enwreath your homes in one red funeral-pyre!
Back to our Freedom-home!—our souls again
Join in a happy nation's triumph-strain!
Our throbbing hearts, in cadence with the sound
Of trump, and drum, and cannon booming round!—
Our soaring spirits, on the golden air,
Springing to plant a star-lit banner there!
Joining the anthem, gush our swelling-hearts,—
Freedom her glorious life to every soul imparts!
Join in a happy nation's triumph-strain!
Our throbbing hearts, in cadence with the sound
Of trump, and drum, and cannon booming round!—
Our soaring spirits, on the golden air,
Springing to plant a star-lit banner there!
Joining the anthem, gush our swelling-hearts,—
Freedom her glorious life to every soul imparts!
O God! what mockery is this to him,
Whose eyes with death's approaching vail are dim—
The restless sufferer, on whose burning brain
Crashes the torture of each martial strain;—
The fettered wretch, within the dungeon gloom,
Hears the glad echo round his living tomb—
Hears the shrill trump arising wild and high,
And clanks his chains, in hopeless agony!
The Slave, too, hears it—'neath a cloudless sky,
He gazes round—bright banners meet his eye!
He listens—clarion notes, upon the air,
Speak to his bosom—Liberty is there!
Shout, shout aloud! 't is Freedom's birth-day!—shout!
What! mute? the lash shall bring thy plaudits out!
The lash shall make thee hail our Freedom's name—
Freedom and Justice twined—Columbia's lasting fame.
Whose eyes with death's approaching vail are dim—
The restless sufferer, on whose burning brain
Crashes the torture of each martial strain;—
The fettered wretch, within the dungeon gloom,
Hears the glad echo round his living tomb—
Hears the shrill trump arising wild and high,
And clanks his chains, in hopeless agony!
371
He gazes round—bright banners meet his eye!
He listens—clarion notes, upon the air,
Speak to his bosom—Liberty is there!
Shout, shout aloud! 't is Freedom's birth-day!—shout!
What! mute? the lash shall bring thy plaudits out!
The lash shall make thee hail our Freedom's name—
Freedom and Justice twined—Columbia's lasting fame.
The first, faint streaks of Morning's mellowed light
Are checkering the sky—the shades of Night
Are fading into sunlight—hill and vale
In laughing loveliness the day-star hail;—
A stately form has reached yon mountain-steep,
Around whose base the circling waters leap;
His arm is raised to heaven—his bright black eye
Fixed sorrowingly upon the changing sky;—
And now it falls—across the wide-spread plain,
The fields all bending with their shining grain,
The waving woods that rock in living green,
The streams that leap and flash in silvery sheen,—
In one wide, sweeping glance, his spirit views the scene.
Are checkering the sky—the shades of Night
Are fading into sunlight—hill and vale
In laughing loveliness the day-star hail;—
A stately form has reached yon mountain-steep,
Around whose base the circling waters leap;
His arm is raised to heaven—his bright black eye
Fixed sorrowingly upon the changing sky;—
And now it falls—across the wide-spread plain,
The fields all bending with their shining grain,
The waving woods that rock in living green,
The streams that leap and flash in silvery sheen,—
In one wide, sweeping glance, his spirit views the scene.
Hark! from the valleys;—'tis the signal-gun—
Freedom, rejoicing, hails her natal sun;
Bright swords are flashing back the morning-beam;
Star-woven banners from each hill-top stream.
Child of a murdered race! swells now thy soul,
Responsive to the strains that round thee roll?
Leapeth thy heart when Freedom's shouts arise—
When Freedom's meteor banners kiss the skies?
Shout forth thy gladness, red man! let thy voice
With Freedom's accents blend! with Freedom's sons rejoice!
Freedom, rejoicing, hails her natal sun;
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Star-woven banners from each hill-top stream.
Child of a murdered race! swells now thy soul,
Responsive to the strains that round thee roll?
Leapeth thy heart when Freedom's shouts arise—
When Freedom's meteor banners kiss the skies?
Shout forth thy gladness, red man! let thy voice
With Freedom's accents blend! with Freedom's sons rejoice!
His voice is raised—above the trumpet-tone,
The drum-beat, and the cannon-peal;—alone,
Above the shout of Freedom's joy that tells,
In its own strength upon the breeze it swells.
But not with joy! a curse—a gasping prayer
For swift and sure revenge! With bosom bare,
With lifted eyes and arms, behold him stand—
The avenging curse invoking on our land!
A curse upon the white man's tyrant race—
A curse upon his home and dwelling-place—
A curse upon his children and his land,—
War, pestilence, and blight—the battle and the brand!
The drum-beat, and the cannon-peal;—alone,
Above the shout of Freedom's joy that tells,
In its own strength upon the breeze it swells.
But not with joy! a curse—a gasping prayer
For swift and sure revenge! With bosom bare,
With lifted eyes and arms, behold him stand—
The avenging curse invoking on our land!
A curse upon the white man's tyrant race—
A curse upon his home and dwelling-place—
A curse upon his children and his land,—
War, pestilence, and blight—the battle and the brand!
That curse is ringing still! and now, again,
Comes the low murmur of the Slave's “Amen!”
Will ye not hear it—ye, whose voices guide
Our counsels and our country—ere the tide
Of ruin sweep ye from your pitch of pride?
When the Old World is riven, and despot-sway
O'er the rent states shall hold its crushing way;
When the dark Russian's vast and pall-like power
O'er Europe's prostrate monarchies shall lower;
When Asia's hordes upon the tide of war,
Shall bear the fetters of the conquering Czar;—
What hope may cheer the bosoms of the free?
Where shall the Nations look, Columbia! but to THEE?
Comes the low murmur of the Slave's “Amen!”
Will ye not hear it—ye, whose voices guide
Our counsels and our country—ere the tide
Of ruin sweep ye from your pitch of pride?
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O'er the rent states shall hold its crushing way;
When the dark Russian's vast and pall-like power
O'er Europe's prostrate monarchies shall lower;
When Asia's hordes upon the tide of war,
Shall bear the fetters of the conquering Czar;—
What hope may cheer the bosoms of the free?
Where shall the Nations look, Columbia! but to THEE?
Here—in the mighty West, my country—here,
Freedom to her omnipotent God may rear
Her proudest temple! Here, in grandeur nurs'd,
Till on the world His word shall bid her burst,
Let Freedom's soul abide! And when the cloud
Of tyrant-power the Nations shall enshroud;
And when the measure of their servile woes
The cup of Retribution overflows;—
Forth on the world once more her form shall beam,
To change the tide of grief to love's illumined stream!
Freedom to her omnipotent God may rear
Her proudest temple! Here, in grandeur nurs'd,
Till on the world His word shall bid her burst,
Let Freedom's soul abide! And when the cloud
Of tyrant-power the Nations shall enshroud;
And when the measure of their servile woes
The cup of Retribution overflows;—
Forth on the world once more her form shall beam,
To change the tide of grief to love's illumined stream!
And ye around me, whom no despot binds—
Rich in the freedom of your youthful minds—
The time may come when your firm hearts shall bar
The dreadful progress of the tyrant's car—
The tyrant Ignorance, whose iron hand
The free and generous may alone withstand;
The time may come when yonder column'd hill
In Memory's heart alone a place shall fill;
The time will come when ye, who hail this day,
Even like its sunlight shall have passed away;
But, onward to the fight—the glorious strife!
Buckle your armor for the field of Life!
Let your awakening souls, sustained in God,
Cast the enlightening spirit-food abroad;
Quaff the rich draught from Learning's mighty fount,
And on the wings of Knowledge heavenward mount!
Then shall the trumpet of the glorious West
Startle the world from slavery's sluggish rest;
And, like old Jericho, at the mighty sound,
The conquered towers of Crime shall crumble to the ground!
Rich in the freedom of your youthful minds—
The time may come when your firm hearts shall bar
The dreadful progress of the tyrant's car—
The tyrant Ignorance, whose iron hand
The free and generous may alone withstand;
374
In Memory's heart alone a place shall fill;
The time will come when ye, who hail this day,
Even like its sunlight shall have passed away;
But, onward to the fight—the glorious strife!
Buckle your armor for the field of Life!
Let your awakening souls, sustained in God,
Cast the enlightening spirit-food abroad;
Quaff the rich draught from Learning's mighty fount,
And on the wings of Knowledge heavenward mount!
Then shall the trumpet of the glorious West
Startle the world from slavery's sluggish rest;
And, like old Jericho, at the mighty sound,
The conquered towers of Crime shall crumble to the ground!
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“FRANGAS NON FLECTES.”
I WOULD not weep, nor breathe a sigh,
Though all the world should frown on me;
I'd boldly stem the wintry sea,
And tempest high.
Though all the world should frown on me;
I'd boldly stem the wintry sea,
And tempest high.
I would not teach my stubborn neck
To bend beneath a great one's frown,
Nor bid mine own free soul bow down
At monarch's beck.
To bend beneath a great one's frown,
Nor bid mine own free soul bow down
At monarch's beck.
No servile strain I'd teach my tongue,
To win the ear of mighty ones;
Whate'er within my spirit burns
High up is flung.
To win the ear of mighty ones;
Whate'er within my spirit burns
High up is flung.
And should they smile—as smile they may—
Should I their scorn and hatred feel—
I 'd wrap my tortured heart in steel:
Proud, careless, gay!
Should I their scorn and hatred feel—
I 'd wrap my tortured heart in steel:
Proud, careless, gay!
Ay! though the power of earthly wo
Should crush my frame in agony,
My SOUL, unbent, proud, stern, and free,
Would scorn the blow!
Should crush my frame in agony,
My SOUL, unbent, proud, stern, and free,
Would scorn the blow!
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But if a soft, sweet voice should call;
A kindly heart should throb with mine;
A gentle spirit round me twine,—
Then, tears might fall.
A kindly heart should throb with mine;
A gentle spirit round me twine,—
Then, tears might fall.
The tears that sorrow ne'er could wring,
The sighs that pain might waken not—
The plaint that hate and scorn ne'er brought—
Love's look would bring!
The sighs that pain might waken not—
The plaint that hate and scorn ne'er brought—
Love's look would bring!
BLUE EYES.
THOSE eyes of blue! those eyes of blue!
How many a beaming glance I knew,
Ere sorrow's cloud came o'er me;
Ah, me! methinks they darker grew,
As Fortune's favors fled before me.
How many a beaming glance I knew,
Ere sorrow's cloud came o'er me;
Ah, me! methinks they darker grew,
As Fortune's favors fled before me.
Those eyes of blue! those eyes of blue!
They've lost their mild, cerulean hue—
They 've lost their beaming glances;
Ah, me! they darkly gleam,—adieu!
False eyes, that change when gloom advances.
They've lost their mild, cerulean hue—
They 've lost their beaming glances;
Ah, me! they darkly gleam,—adieu!
False eyes, that change when gloom advances.
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BELLS.
YE melancholy bells!
Ye know not why ye 're ringing—
See not the tear-drops springing,
From sorrows that ye bring to mind,
Ye melancholy bells!
Ye know not why ye 're ringing—
See not the tear-drops springing,
From sorrows that ye bring to mind,
Ye melancholy bells!
Oh! doleful is your sound!
Your clear and plaintive knelling
Some sorrow-tale is telling;
Ye 're breaking now the hopes that twined
A mourner's heart-strings round.
Your clear and plaintive knelling
Some sorrow-tale is telling;
Ye 're breaking now the hopes that twined
A mourner's heart-strings round.
And ye will ring again!
And ye will ring to-morrow!
Yet not in notes of sorrow;
But with a joyful wedding-peal
Oh! ye will tremble then.
And ye will ring to-morrow!
Yet not in notes of sorrow;
But with a joyful wedding-peal
Oh! ye will tremble then.
And thus ye will ring on!—
To-day in tones of sadness;
To-morrow, peals of gladness;—
Ye'll sound them both, yet never feel
A thrill of either one.
To-day in tones of sadness;
To-morrow, peals of gladness;—
Ye'll sound them both, yet never feel
A thrill of either one.
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Ye ever-changing bells!
Oh! many ye resemble,
Who ever throb and tremble,
Yet never know what moves them so,—
Ye ever-changing bells!
Oh! many ye resemble,
Who ever throb and tremble,
Yet never know what moves them so,—
Ye ever-changing bells!
EVENING.
EVENING has come! the distant hills grow dimIn lengthened shadows, and the vesper-hymn
Of flute-voiced warblers falls upon mine ear
In thrilling melody;—yet, lingering here,
I meditate. The setting sun's last ray
Falls mildly-brilliant over wood and stream;
'Tis gone! but mark the day-god's golden way.
Can fair Italia's boasted sunsets beam
With richer glories? All the western sky
Seems lit by flame! with living fire each cloud
Is tipped! the glorious brilliancy
Of Iris shines in all, and lights the proud,
Majestic city's domes that rise below,
Till spire and turret high with answering splendor glow.
379
THE FALLING STAR.
O WHITHER, now, thou wandering star!
Across the heavens gleaming?—
From all thy sister-lights afar
Thine errant soul is streaming.
Across the heavens gleaming?—
From all thy sister-lights afar
Thine errant soul is streaming.
Thy meteor-form ne'er met my gaze,
Amid the studded heaven,
Until I marked thy flitting rays
Adown the azure driven.
Amid the studded heaven,
Until I marked thy flitting rays
Adown the azure driven.
Ah, me! a fitting emblem thou,
O star! so bright and fleeting!
Of souls that shed a PARTING glow
When FIRST our spirits greeting.
O star! so bright and fleeting!
Of souls that shed a PARTING glow
When FIRST our spirits greeting.
The brightest and the holiest—
Who all our gloom might banish—
Alas! we know not they exist,
Until they gleam—TO VANISH.
Who all our gloom might banish—
Alas! we know not they exist,
Until they gleam—TO VANISH.
380
HEART-SEEKING.
SADLY, in the city's crowd,
Wanders the stranger child;
'Mid the people's murmurs loud,
Lonely and wild.
Wanders the stranger child;
'Mid the people's murmurs loud,
Lonely and wild.
Swiftly by, the people pass,
Jostle the weeping boy—
In the hurried, heartless mass,
Searching for joy.
Jostle the weeping boy—
In the hurried, heartless mass,
Searching for joy.
Sadly prays the sobbing child,
Shelter and love to gain—
Plaintively, in accents mild;—
All, all in vain!
Shelter and love to gain—
Plaintively, in accents mild;—
All, all in vain!
Tremblingly a music-voice
Greeteth his listening ear—
Bidding his young heart rejoice,
Soothing his fear.
Greeteth his listening ear—
Bidding his young heart rejoice,
Soothing his fear.
Lo! the maiden's lily hands
Twine his dark, wavy hair;
Weaving glossy raven bands
On his brow fair.
Twine his dark, wavy hair;
Weaving glossy raven bands
On his brow fair.
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Sinking on the maiden's breast,
Smiles he his soul away—
Brightly as when in the West
Sinks the sun's ray.
Smiles he his soul away—
Brightly as when in the West
Sinks the sun's ray.
But an angel form remains,
Viewless beside the maid—
Whispers her in music strains,
'Mid twilight shade.
Viewless beside the maid—
Whispers her in music strains,
'Mid twilight shade.
HEART SENSES.
IT met me—that cold and withering look—
Yet my brow was still unclouded;
Not a moment the smile my lip forsook,
And no gloom mine eyes enshrouded.
My song rang forth, and my laugh rose high;
But I saw that look with my HEART'S OWN EYE.
Yet my brow was still unclouded;
Not a moment the smile my lip forsook,
And no gloom mine eyes enshrouded.
My song rang forth, and my laugh rose high;
But I saw that look with my HEART'S OWN EYE.
It fell from thy lips—that chilling word—
When my soul with joy was teeming;
And you dreamed not that by me 't was heard,
For mine eye was bright and beaming.
You heard no sigh, and you saw no tear,—
But that cold word reached my HEART'S OWN EAR.
When my soul with joy was teeming;
And you dreamed not that by me 't was heard,
For mine eye was bright and beaming.
You heard no sigh, and you saw no tear,—
But that cold word reached my HEART'S OWN EAR.
382
MIDNIGHT.
MIDNIGHT upon the waters! Heaven is gemm'dWith all the brilliant garniture of night;
And the waves dance, in liquid radiance bright,
As though the rays from Peris' wings reflected
Flash'd through the crystal element, and stream'd
Upon its surface in effulgent light.
My boat glides onward, silently—directed
By the invisible spirits of air, who throng
The viewless space, and mildly, sweetly fan
With soft and beautiful wings the brow of man.
The moon upon the lake her rays is flinging,
And calmly greets me as I glide along,
And seek with curious gaze her face to scan;
The music of the waterfall is ringing,
Mellowed by distance in my listening ear—
As 't were the warble of some wood-nymph fair,
Rising in notes melodious on the air.
All else is hush'd! save when, in whispers stealing,
A low and mystic minstrelsy I hear—
Like earthly echoes of some seraph's pray'r—
That soothes the soul to calm and holy feeling.
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SONG OF LIFE.
SO MOTE it be!
If sorrow press our sinking souls—
If misery's tempest o'er us rolls,—
If wrecked we are on Fortune's shoals,—
So mote it be!
This merry strain the sexton trolls,
And so troll we.
If sorrow press our sinking souls—
If misery's tempest o'er us rolls,—
If wrecked we are on Fortune's shoals,—
So mote it be!
This merry strain the sexton trolls,
And so troll we.
So mote it be!
Is friendship false? is love betrayed?
Our being's sunshine turned to shade?
Do all our joys but bloom to fade?—
So mote it be!
The woe upon our hearts is laid:
We cannot flee.
Is friendship false? is love betrayed?
Our being's sunshine turned to shade?
Do all our joys but bloom to fade?—
So mote it be!
The woe upon our hearts is laid:
We cannot flee.
So mote it be!
Shall death, in fearful guise, draw near,
And turn our brightest hopes to fear,
And friends shall o'er us shed no tear,—
So mote it be!
Through life our souls are wearied here—
In death are free.
Shall death, in fearful guise, draw near,
And turn our brightest hopes to fear,
And friends shall o'er us shed no tear,—
So mote it be!
Through life our souls are wearied here—
In death are free.
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So mote it be!
If there in truth should be a heaven,
If there our sins are all forgiven,
If there our hearts no more are riven,—
So mote it be!
To port, at last, we shall be driven,
From life's rough sea.
If there in truth should be a heaven,
If there our sins are all forgiven,
If there our hearts no more are riven,—
So mote it be!
To port, at last, we shall be driven,
From life's rough sea.
AFTER A THUNDER-STORM.
SOFT blows the freshen'd air! the gloomy cloudsThat hung above the misty mount are breaking;
The birds are bursting from their leafy shrouds,
And hill and vale with minstrelsy are waking,
With gushing rivulets sweet music making.
Earth breathes again! for she has cast away
The nightmare Tempest, and in sunlight basks,
To drink its warmth, while kindly Nature tasks
Her art, to bring, beneath her gentle sway,
Our late-complaining souls to smile in gladness.
Thus, gladd'ning every bosom with his rays,
And bidding every tongue to shout his praise,
And drying Nature's tear-drops in his blaze,
The happy Sun can wake mankind from sadness.
385
SLEEP-LOVE.
WHERE is the maid with dark-brown tresses,
Ever with me in my dreams?—
Sweetly her form my spirit blesses,
Greets my heart in sunny gleams.
Ever with me in my dreams?—
Sweetly her form my spirit blesses,
Greets my heart in sunny gleams.
In my lone soul her voice is thrilling,
Like an angel's whispering;
Softly it cometh—passion stilling—
Dove-like, “healing on its wing.”
Like an angel's whispering;
Softly it cometh—passion stilling—
Dove-like, “healing on its wing.”
Darkly, and yet in love, are bending
Over me those angel eyes;
Love and sorrowing joy are blending
In their holy mysteries.
Over me those angel eyes;
Love and sorrowing joy are blending
In their holy mysteries.
Clasp me within thine arms my love, now;
Is it all a dream—a dream?
Angels! gaze ye from above, now!
Ye my love's own sister seem.
Is it all a dream—a dream?
Angels! gaze ye from above, now!
Ye my love's own sister seem.
386
TOMB-FLOWERS.
WHAT boots it to the dead—
The marble mausoleum's sculptured woe,
That mocks the cold and silent one below—
The labored epitaph—chiselled praise
That greets so chillingly the mourner's gaze—
What boots it to the dead?
The marble mausoleum's sculptured woe,
That mocks the cold and silent one below—
The labored epitaph—chiselled praise
That greets so chillingly the mourner's gaze—
What boots it to the dead?
What recks the broken heart
Of all the tinsel pride, the splendor bright,
That falls like ice upon the mourner's sight?
Of all the pomp, the glitter, and the glare,
Of life's brief pleasures, fanciful as fair,
What recks the broken heart?
Of all the tinsel pride, the splendor bright,
That falls like ice upon the mourner's sight?
Of all the pomp, the glitter, and the glare,
Of life's brief pleasures, fanciful as fair,
What recks the broken heart?
Oh! rear no massy tomb!
But let the friends—the loving ones—strew flowers!
The roses that I loved in life's sad hours;
And let their tears, if, haply, tears be shed,
Bedew the roses on my lowly bed—
But rear no massy tomb!
But let the friends—the loving ones—strew flowers!
The roses that I loved in life's sad hours;
And let their tears, if, haply, tears be shed,
Bedew the roses on my lowly bed—
But rear no massy tomb!
387
Oh! deck my grave with flowers!
The cold, dark stone would weigh my spirit down;
'Twould sink like Love beneath Misfortune's frown;
But flowers—sweet flowers—deep-rooted in my heart,
Would have their life in me, and be of me a part.
Then deck my grave with flowers!
The cold, dark stone would weigh my spirit down;
'Twould sink like Love beneath Misfortune's frown;
But flowers—sweet flowers—deep-rooted in my heart,
Would have their life in me, and be of me a part.
Then deck my grave with flowers!
SUMMER-MUSINGS.
SUNLIGHT around me danceth! shadows creepAcross my sight, and vanish; balmy airs
Float up and down around me; gentle flowers,
Green, waving trees, and golden-plumaged birds,
Painted and fanciful butterflies, and bees,
Buzzing and circling round;—all summer life!
All that can make the forest beautiful—
All that may speak of joy—is round me now.
There is a little brooklet at my feet,
Purling and whispering, as if its breast
Labored with some huge secret, which it fain
Would tell to me. And there, beneath the bank
All green and mossy, where the willows hang
In beautiful festoons—within that nook—
The silver-pinioned troutling glideth slow.
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That once in majesty o'ertopped the scene,
Creepeth a lazy caterpillar, with a dull
And measured listlessness. Perchance, as now
With slow, monotonous march, he crawleth on,
He dreameth with a trusting hopefulness
Of light and beauty in his crysalis-birth;
And so plods perseveringly along,
Sustained and strengthened.
May I learn from him
To bear this caterpillar load of life,
Until from heaven shall fall my spirit-wings!
THE SWORD OF WASHINGTON,
AND FRANKLIN'S STAFF.
NOT as a battle-gift,
We grasp our chieftain's sword,—
Not in the combat to uplift,
To light the battle's stormy rift,
Where Freedom's blood is poured.
We hail thee, O thou warrior-blade!
Of brighter days the sign—
Like that which armed the Gallic maid,
Whose hand the rushing foeman stayed,
With courage all divine.
We grasp our chieftain's sword,—
Not in the combat to uplift,
To light the battle's stormy rift,
Where Freedom's blood is poured.
We hail thee, O thou warrior-blade!
Of brighter days the sign—
Like that which armed the Gallic maid,
Whose hand the rushing foeman stayed,
With courage all divine.
389
Sword of the mighty Dead,
Thy light shall guard our land
And, even as the meteor dread,
That flashes round the Cherub's head,
Shall blast each foeman's hand.
Sword! thou art Freedom's chosen guest,
In her own festal hall;
At her right hand, in triumph, rest;
Thy point at each dark traitor's breast,
Who would his land enthrall.
Thy light shall guard our land
And, even as the meteor dread,
That flashes round the Cherub's head,
Shall blast each foeman's hand.
Sword! thou art Freedom's chosen guest,
In her own festal hall;
At her right hand, in triumph, rest;
Thy point at each dark traitor's breast,
Who would his land enthrall.
Hail! falchion heaven-sent!
That armed our struggling land!
Hail! pilgrim-staff on which she leant,
Till Salem's shining battlement
Her eye in gladness scanned.
And, till that Sword from out its sheath
Shall leap—that Staff to sever—
So long around our hearts shall wreathe
Bright Freedom's chain—her accents breathe
In holy tones forever!
That armed our struggling land!
Hail! pilgrim-staff on which she leant,
Till Salem's shining battlement
Her eye in gladness scanned.
And, till that Sword from out its sheath
Shall leap—that Staff to sever—
So long around our hearts shall wreathe
Bright Freedom's chain—her accents breathe
In holy tones forever!
390
TO A FRIEND.
LEAVE me not, thou brightest one!
All is joy when thou art near;
Thou canst teach my soul to shun
Paths of gloom and thoughts of fear.
All is joy when thou art near;
Thou canst teach my soul to shun
Paths of gloom and thoughts of fear.
I am like the cloud of night,
Wrapped in gloom and mystery;
Thou the beaming morning light,
Causing all its gloom to flee.
Wrapped in gloom and mystery;
Thou the beaming morning light,
Causing all its gloom to flee.
I am like the airy kite,
Soaring in the sky above,—
Guided in my lofty flight
By the thread of thy sweet Love;—
Soaring in the sky above,—
Guided in my lofty flight
By the thread of thy sweet Love;—
Ah! should fate the thread divide,
That connects my heart with thine,
Wavering, then, without a guide,
Darkness and despair are mine!
That connects my heart with thine,
Wavering, then, without a guide,
Darkness and despair are mine!
391
TO A FRIEND IN HEAVEN.
WE think of thee!
In the lone midnight hour, when all around
Is hushed in slumber—when no waking sound
Disturbs the solemn silence—O, 't is then,
When midnight's pall hangs darkly o'er the glen,
We think of thee!
In the lone midnight hour, when all around
Is hushed in slumber—when no waking sound
Disturbs the solemn silence—O, 't is then,
When midnight's pall hangs darkly o'er the glen,
We think of thee!
We weep for thee!
When in sad memory's glass we see thy form,
As once we saw thee, when, with pressure warm,
Thy hand was clasped in friendship's close embrace;
And, as each well-remembered line we trace,
We weep for thee!
When in sad memory's glass we see thy form,
As once we saw thee, when, with pressure warm,
Thy hand was clasped in friendship's close embrace;
And, as each well-remembered line we trace,
We weep for thee!
We miss thee, too!
Miss thee at evening, in thy usual seat,
Amid the social circle—miss thy feet
In all the walks of life where thou didst stray,
And as we tread, without thee, each loved way,
We miss thee, too!
Miss thee at evening, in thy usual seat,
Amid the social circle—miss thy feet
In all the walks of life where thou didst stray,
And as we tread, without thee, each loved way,
We miss thee, too!
392
Yet, rest thee now!
We would not call thee from thy spirit-home,
To this dull earth; we would not bid thee roam
Once more the thorny paths of mortal life,—
But, free from earthly woe, and earthly strife,
Yet, rest thee now!
We would not call thee from thy spirit-home,
To this dull earth; we would not bid thee roam
Once more the thorny paths of mortal life,—
But, free from earthly woe, and earthly strife,
Yet, rest thee now!
THE UNSTRUNG LUTE.
ALAS! my HEART is like a lute—
A lute, unused, unstrung;
Its melody is hushed, and mute
The chords that erewhile rung!
A lute, unused, unstrung;
Its melody is hushed, and mute
The chords that erewhile rung!
Yet there is one can bid it wake
To life and joy once more—
One gentle hand the spell might break,
And bid its sleep be o'er!
To life and joy once more—
One gentle hand the spell might break,
And bid its sleep be o'er!
Alas! that hand strikes not its strings,
The lute forgotten lies—
Its chords are snapped!—no more it rings!—
The lute, unvalued, dies!
The lute forgotten lies—
Its chords are snapped!—no more it rings!—
The lute, unvalued, dies!
393
TO MY BOOT.
BOOT! that, trodden under foot,
Seekest not to change thy fate;—
Happy art thou, lowly boot!
Shining in thy humble state.
Seekest not to change thy fate;—
Happy art thou, lowly boot!
Shining in thy humble state.
In thy patient usefulness,
Guardest thou my feet from ill;
Though full heavily I press,
Uncomplaining art thou still.
Guardest thou my feet from ill;
Though full heavily I press,
Uncomplaining art thou still.
Oft the foot of Vanity
Teachest thou a lesson meet—
Yet no malice lives in thee,
Guardian of the tender feet!
Teachest thou a lesson meet—
Yet no malice lives in thee,
Guardian of the tender feet!
Even as upon thy form
Cast they now a covering black,
So the clouds of earthly storm
Darken aye the good man's track.
Cast they now a covering black,
So the clouds of earthly storm
Darken aye the good man's track.
Even as the driving brush
Rubbeth roughly over thee,
So the heavy tempests rush
O'er the good man's destiny.
Rubbeth roughly over thee,
So the heavy tempests rush
O'er the good man's destiny.
394
Yet, as now each rougher blow
Makes thy form appear more bright,
So the storms of earthly woe
Clothe the good man's soul in light.
Makes thy form appear more bright,
So the storms of earthly woe
Clothe the good man's soul in light.
Fare thee well, my humble boot!
Even thou canst waken thought;—
Lowly though thou art—and mute—
Yet thou hast a lesson taught.
Even thou canst waken thought;—
Lowly though thou art—and mute—
Yet thou hast a lesson taught.
TO MY CIGAR.
BLESS thee, O friend!—as now, in wreaths ascending,
Twineth thy smoke a garland round my brow;
Even as those wreaths with Heaven's airs are blending,
So would my thoughts ascend in stillness now!
Twineth thy smoke a garland round my brow;
Even as those wreaths with Heaven's airs are blending,
So would my thoughts ascend in stillness now!
Even as thy folds are firmly knit together,
So are the hearts that holy Love unites,
And as thy smoke ascends in fragrant ether,
Mount their true thoughts to soar in Heaven's heights.
So are the hearts that holy Love unites,
And as thy smoke ascends in fragrant ether,
Mount their true thoughts to soar in Heaven's heights.
395
As to the ground, unnoticed, falls thine ashes,
So shall descend unholy thoughts to earth,
While, in the light of Virtue's spirit-flashes,
Upward will soar the thoughts of purer birth.
So shall descend unholy thoughts to earth,
While, in the light of Virtue's spirit-flashes,
Upward will soar the thoughts of purer birth.
Even as the living element, which fires thee,
Sends from thy form its fragrancy above—
Even as its influence alone inspires thee,—
So is the soul alone inspired by Love!
Sends from thy form its fragrancy above—
Even as its influence alone inspires thee,—
So is the soul alone inspired by Love!
Ah! if the living flame be from thee banished,
Where is the fragrance—where the soaring cloud?
Thus is the soul from which true Love is banished,
Darksome and icy cold amid the crowd.
Where is the fragrance—where the soaring cloud?
Thus is the soul from which true Love is banished,
Darksome and icy cold amid the crowd.
So, as the breath, which sends thy smoke to Heaven,
And as the fire which gives its breath to thee,—
O! may the breath of God to me be given!—
O! may the flame of Love illumine me!
And as the fire which gives its breath to thee,—
O! may the breath of God to me be given!—
O! may the flame of Love illumine me!
EPITAPH ON A POET.
MOCKED by the world, his spirit passed away;Body and soul were starved;
This massy stone is raised above his clay—
Elaborately carved!
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AMEN!
TO the mariner's midnight pray'r,
As he paceth the rolling deck;
As he treadeth the parting wreck;
God! thou art there;
Amen!
As he paceth the rolling deck;
As he treadeth the parting wreck;
God! thou art there;
Amen!
To the desolate widow's cry,
As she presseth the dead one's cheek;
When her spirit is faint and weak;
Hear thou her sigh!
Amen!
As she presseth the dead one's cheek;
When her spirit is faint and weak;
Hear thou her sigh!
Amen!
To the wandering orphan's moan,
As he prayeth in chilling fear;
Wilt thou banish the orphan's tear—
Merciful One?
Amen!
As he prayeth in chilling fear;
Wilt thou banish the orphan's tear—
Merciful One?
Amen!
To the suppliant scorner's call,
As he bendeth in sorrow low;
On his spirit let mercy flow;
Let him not fall;—
Amen!
As he bendeth in sorrow low;
On his spirit let mercy flow;
Let him not fall;—
Amen!
To the perishing traveller's voice,
When the tempest is swelling high;
Be thy succoring mercy nigh—
Bid him rejoice;
Amen!
When the tempest is swelling high;
Be thy succoring mercy nigh—
Bid him rejoice;
Amen!
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To the desolate mourner's prayer,
In the palace or prison-cell;
Let thine answering mercy tell,
Thou, God! art there!
Amen!
In the palace or prison-cell;
Let thine answering mercy tell,
Thou, God! art there!
Amen!
AN ALLEGORY FOR A LITTLE FRIEND, WHO WOULD KNOW THE MEANING OF “FAREWELL.”
FLORIMEL was an artless, innocent child,
And loved all Nature. Every little bird
That chirrup'd in the wood, and every brook
That capered down the hill-side, she did love;
And often you might hear her carolling voice,
Waking the forest echoes with a song—
Flute-toned and musical, like her feather'd friends.
And loved all Nature. Every little bird
That chirrup'd in the wood, and every brook
That capered down the hill-side, she did love;
And often you might hear her carolling voice,
Waking the forest echoes with a song—
Flute-toned and musical, like her feather'd friends.
Well! 't was a summer's eve; and Florimel
(Chasing the butterflies) had wandered far,
And sunset fell around her. All at once,
She heard a fluttering, and, looking round,
Espied a beautiful bird, with golden neck,
And lovely violet eyes, and starry wings;
But he was prison'd in some fowler's net,
And could not rise—but, ever and anon,
His little wings would flap, and his breast heave;
And such a pitiful strain he did pour forth,
It grieved the little maiden's heart to hear.
(Chasing the butterflies) had wandered far,
And sunset fell around her. All at once,
She heard a fluttering, and, looking round,
Espied a beautiful bird, with golden neck,
And lovely violet eyes, and starry wings;
But he was prison'd in some fowler's net,
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His little wings would flap, and his breast heave;
And such a pitiful strain he did pour forth,
It grieved the little maiden's heart to hear.
Florimel ran to loose him, and the bird
Turned his soft eyes upon her, and was still;
For every living thing did love the maid,
She was so gentle.
Soon the net was loosed;
And with a joyous flapping of his wings,
The bird flew, singing, to a hawthorne-bush,
Close to the maiden's cheek, and rested there.
Florimel listened, and in wonder, too;
For he did call her name, and then, with voice
Sweet as the tinkling music of a stream,
He spoke, while tremblingly she gazed at him:
Turned his soft eyes upon her, and was still;
For every living thing did love the maid,
She was so gentle.
Soon the net was loosed;
And with a joyous flapping of his wings,
The bird flew, singing, to a hawthorne-bush,
Close to the maiden's cheek, and rested there.
Florimel listened, and in wonder, too;
For he did call her name, and then, with voice
Sweet as the tinkling music of a stream,
He spoke, while tremblingly she gazed at him:
Farewell!
Beautiful child, gentle and mild,
Farewell!
And when, sweet maiden, thou wouldst seek
To bless the friends thy heart doth love,
Be this the word that thou shalt speak,—
And turn thy seeking eyes above,—
“Farewell!”
Well SHALL they fare who hear thy prayer.
Farewell!
Beautiful child, gentle and mild,
Farewell!
And when, sweet maiden, thou wouldst seek
To bless the friends thy heart doth love,
Be this the word that thou shalt speak,—
And turn thy seeking eyes above,—
“Farewell!”
Well SHALL they fare who hear thy prayer.
Farewell!
Up, in the summer-sunset, flew the bird,
While Florimel gazed in tearful wonderment.
The maiden turned her to her cottage-home;
And, frisking in his gladness, came her lamb—
The dear pet-lamb—to meet her. Then she led
Her favorite, by his silken chain of blue,
Up to his little fold, and bade “Fare well!”
While Florimel gazed in tearful wonderment.
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And, frisking in his gladness, came her lamb—
The dear pet-lamb—to meet her. Then she led
Her favorite, by his silken chain of blue,
Up to his little fold, and bade “Fare well!”
But the young lambkin gazed into her face
With a mute love-look, then lay down and—died.
With a mute love-look, then lay down and—died.
Florimel's grief broke forth in passionate tears;
And, fleeing to her home, she told the tale
Of her young sorrow to her favorite friend,
A silver-throated humming-bird. “But thou!”
She cried, “THOU shalt, at least, fare well!”
And, fleeing to her home, she told the tale
Of her young sorrow to her favorite friend,
A silver-throated humming-bird. “But thou!”
She cried, “THOU shalt, at least, fare well!”
The birdling flapped its little wings, and breathed
His dying sigh. Then, sad and sorrowful,
Florimel knelt beside it, and looked up
Into the twilight-heaven. “Are they well?”
She murmured: “Then, too, farewell, Florimel!”
And, falling down with her mute favorite,
She sank to innocent death-sleep, while above,
The beautiful stranger-bird appeared in heaven,
And whispered, “All fare well!”
His dying sigh. Then, sad and sorrowful,
Florimel knelt beside it, and looked up
Into the twilight-heaven. “Are they well?”
She murmured: “Then, too, farewell, Florimel!”
And, falling down with her mute favorite,
She sank to innocent death-sleep, while above,
The beautiful stranger-bird appeared in heaven,
And whispered, “All fare well!”
FINIS.
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