 | Erato, number II |  |
THE OLD SOLDIER.
I.
There was a sound of battle
Borne on the driving breeze;
And arm'd hosts gathered on the land—
Arm'd vessels sail'd the seas.
From Albion's haughty Island
The bold invaders came,
For fancied wrongs to legislate
With bayonet, sword, and flame.
Borne on the driving breeze;
And arm'd hosts gathered on the land—
Arm'd vessels sail'd the seas.
From Albion's haughty Island
The bold invaders came,
For fancied wrongs to legislate
With bayonet, sword, and flame.
On Erie's shores and waters,
By old Potomac's wave,
On Louisiana's glorious strand,
They marshall'd stern and brave.
A call! a call!—Our country
Bids her brightest and her best
To arm, and strike; and bravely they
Obey the high behest.
By old Potomac's wave,
On Louisiana's glorious strand,
They marshall'd stern and brave.
A call! a call!—Our country
Bids her brightest and her best
To arm, and strike; and bravely they
Obey the high behest.
34
There is a neat white cottage,
Embower'd in shading trees,
Whose spiral tops swing back and fore
In dalliance with the breeze.
Fair eyes are dimm'd with weeping,
Which late with joy were bright;
And gentle tones are fill'd with grief,
That swell'd with song last night.
Embower'd in shading trees,
Whose spiral tops swing back and fore
In dalliance with the breeze.
Fair eyes are dimm'd with weeping,
Which late with joy were bright;
And gentle tones are fill'd with grief,
That swell'd with song last night.
Wife—husband—father—daughter—
Are gather'd at the gate:
His heart with patriot blood beats high;
Theirs—they are desolate.
One kiss for weeping daughter—
A warm embrace for wife—
He flings the tear-drop from his eye:
“My country's is my life!”
Are gather'd at the gate:
His heart with patriot blood beats high;
Theirs—they are desolate.
One kiss for weeping daughter—
A warm embrace for wife—
He flings the tear-drop from his eye:
“My country's is my life!”
The free steed soon is mounted—
Off he rushes, like the wind;
And the cottage-home—the wife—the child—
Oh, these are far behind!
On the field of blood, that father
Strikes for his native land:—
Among the foremost, fearlessly
And firm, he takes his stand.
Off he rushes, like the wind;
And the cottage-home—the wife—the child—
Oh, these are far behind!
On the field of blood, that father
Strikes for his native land:—
Among the foremost, fearlessly
And firm, he takes his stand.
Gloom rested on our country!
Her manly breasts were bared—
But Want, with paralysing power,
On those brave patriots stared.
Oh, then that noble father,
Tho' his fortune was but small,
Oped cheerfully his needed purse,
And freely gave it all!
Her manly breasts were bared—
But Want, with paralysing power,
On those brave patriots stared.
Oh, then that noble father,
Tho' his fortune was but small,
Oped cheerfully his needed purse,
And freely gave it all!
35
On Erie's shores and waters,
By old Potomac's wave,
On Louisiana's glorious strand,
The Briton found a grave!
And he who gave so freely
His money and his toil—
How joy'd his heart, that victory
Had freed his native soil.
By old Potomac's wave,
On Louisiana's glorious strand,
The Briton found a grave!
And he who gave so freely
His money and his toil—
How joy'd his heart, that victory
Had freed his native soil.
II.
Long years of peace and glory
Have bless'd our favor'd land:—
Behold an old and gray-hair'd man
Before our rulers stand!
Worn, and in spirit broken,
His head bow'd to the dust,
Trembling he hands his prayer for aid—
My country—Oh, be just!
Have bless'd our favor'd land:—
Behold an old and gray-hair'd man
Before our rulers stand!
Worn, and in spirit broken,
His head bow'd to the dust,
Trembling he hands his prayer for aid—
My country—Oh, be just!
One of thy war-worn veterans,
—Poor and in want—is he:
Bethink thee of their sufferings
On land and on the sea!
One of thy war-worn veterans—
Whose blood was freely shed,
When 'gainst the lordly Lion's might
Thy patriot sons were led.
—Poor and in want—is he:
Bethink thee of their sufferings
On land and on the sea!
One of thy war-worn veterans—
Whose blood was freely shed,
When 'gainst the lordly Lion's might
Thy patriot sons were led.
Give him of thy abundance!
—His life is near its close—
Oh, render him the aid he asks,
To mitigate his woes.
Shame, shame, my tardy country!
Loud Faction fills thy halls;
And those that govern thee are deaf,
When suffering virtue calls.
—His life is near its close—
Oh, render him the aid he asks,
To mitigate his woes.
Shame, shame, my tardy country!
Loud Faction fills thy halls;
36
When suffering virtue calls.
Gone is that hoary soldier—
Unheard his just demand:
His proud soul could not stoop to court
The magnates of the land!
Gone is that hoary soldier!
Home?—Would that it had been!
No! no!—To beg about the land
His heart's blood help'd to win!
Unheard his just demand:
His proud soul could not stoop to court
The magnates of the land!
Gone is that hoary soldier!
Home?—Would that it had been!
No! no!—To beg about the land
His heart's blood help'd to win!
III.
Another year hath sprinkled
Its sorrows on his head:
Again our council halls receive
His melancholy tread.
Again he asks for justice;
He craves no beggar's boon;
Grant it, my country, and be great!
To help, it must be soon.
Its sorrows on his head:
Again our council halls receive
His melancholy tread.
Again he asks for justice;
He craves no beggar's boon;
Grant it, my country, and be great!
To help, it must be soon.
Look on that form—bent—feeble!
Oh, know ye not the cause?
That war-worn cheek—the wounded limb!
How can ye longer pause?
Gaze on that hoary veteran!
Grave Seniors, know ye not
Who rush'd, with purse and sword in hand?
That father, from that cot!
Oh, know ye not the cause?
That war-worn cheek—the wounded limb!
How can ye longer pause?
Gaze on that hoary veteran!
Grave Seniors, know ye not
Who rush'd, with purse and sword in hand?
That father, from that cot!
Give him of thy abundance!
His life, how near its close!
Justice alone will be enough
To mitigate his woes.
Neglect, disease, misfortune,
Have bow'd him to the dust:
Compell'd, he begs what is his right—
My country—Oh, be just!
His life, how near its close!
Justice alone will be enough
To mitigate his woes.
37
Have bow'd him to the dust:
Compell'd, he begs what is his right—
My country—Oh, be just!
Too late!—The cord is broken!
Go—speak in Death's cold ear!
It, or yon sculptured group, as well
As he ye name, can hear.
My country!—oh, my country!
That such should ask in vain!
A blot on thy escutcheon!—on
Thy future page, a stain!
Go—speak in Death's cold ear!
It, or yon sculptured group, as well
As he ye name, can hear.
My country!—oh, my country!
That such should ask in vain!
A blot on thy escutcheon!—on
Thy future page, a stain!
“A painful and melancholy affair occurred here last night. An aged veteran, who served in the American army at New -Orleans, in the last war, and who had advanced his private fortune to the amount of ten thousand dollars, to supply it with arms, had becomed reduced to poverty, and at the last session of Congress, presented a claim for repayment. By press of business, or some other cause, his interest was thrust aside, and neglected. He had again come to Washington to press his claim; but day after day coming but to harass him with a new hope and a new disappointment, his chivalric spirit sunk beneath the agonies of “hope deferred.” His claim was favorably reported to-day, by the chairman of the committee on military affairs. But, alas! it came too late. He was found dead this morning, believed to have deceased of a broken heart.”—Letter from Washington City, Jan. 21, 1835.
| Erato, number II | |