 | Specimens of American poetry |  |
RICHARD DABNEY
THE SPRING OF LIFE.
'T is not enough that virtue sways
Our present hours and passing days;
'T is not enough, our purpose be
From every base intention free;
All that polluted life's first source
Will float along its downward course,
And dark shall be each future year,
Unless the spring of life is clear.
Our present hours and passing days;
'T is not enough, our purpose be
From every base intention free;
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Will float along its downward course,
And dark shall be each future year,
Unless the spring of life is clear.
Though words of truth eternal say,
Repentance washes guilt away;
If former times display a stain,
The future shall the blot retain;
The hue and color of the past
Upon the coming hour is cast;
And dark shall be each future year,
Unless the spring of life be clear.
Repentance washes guilt away;
If former times display a stain,
The future shall the blot retain;
The hue and color of the past
Upon the coming hour is cast;
And dark shall be each future year,
Unless the spring of life be clear.
O then, upon those future years,
Bestow not agony and tears!
Though all thy sins shall be forgiven,
And blotted from the book of heaven;
Their shades shall flit around, and fling
Dark horror from their raven wing;
And bitter be each future year,
Unless the spring of life is clear.
Bestow not agony and tears!
Though all thy sins shall be forgiven,
And blotted from the book of heaven;
Their shades shall flit around, and fling
Dark horror from their raven wing;
And bitter be each future year,
Unless the spring of life is clear.
In early life when trusting youth
Thinks all is goodness, worth, and truth;
A holy inmate charms man's breast,
And lulls its many woes to rest.
It watches o'er his pillow'd head,
And lures sweet slumbers to his bed;
It adds fresh charms to morning's ray,
And guards him through the eventful day—
No might, but his, can bid depart,
That holy inmate from his heart—
'T is stainless conscience—boon of heaven,
To man, for heavenly purpose, given.
Thinks all is goodness, worth, and truth;
A holy inmate charms man's breast,
And lulls its many woes to rest.
It watches o'er his pillow'd head,
And lures sweet slumbers to his bed;
It adds fresh charms to morning's ray,
And guards him through the eventful day—
No might, but his, can bid depart,
That holy inmate from his heart—
'T is stainless conscience—boon of heaven,
To man, for heavenly purpose, given.
But when amidst the world he roves,
And that he ought to hate, he loves,
Unheeded pass its frequent cries,
The holy inmate quickly dies;
But oft within the varying scene,
When thought his follies wakes between;
But oft within the gloom of night,
Its shade, avenging, meets his sight—
Comes, deck'd with all the warmth of youth,
When life was love, and peace, and truth,
Comes, deck'd with all the charms that blest,
In early life, his guiltless breast.
It smiles—in fancied view, appears,
The virtuous bliss of youthful years;
It frowns—before his blasted eyes,
His present vices hideous rise.
And that he ought to hate, he loves,
Unheeded pass its frequent cries,
The holy inmate quickly dies;
But oft within the varying scene,
When thought his follies wakes between;
But oft within the gloom of night,
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Comes, deck'd with all the warmth of youth,
When life was love, and peace, and truth,
Comes, deck'd with all the charms that blest,
In early life, his guiltless breast.
It smiles—in fancied view, appears,
The virtuous bliss of youthful years;
It frowns—before his blasted eyes,
His present vices hideous rise.
A WESTERN WAR SONG.
To the north-western wilds, has our gallant youth gone—
Though his breast, with a tempest of feeling, was torn,
Yet he scorn'd a weak tear, and disdained a weak sigh—
He is wedded to vengeance, or bounden to die,
For the horror-fraught fate of the victim so dear
To the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer.
Though his breast, with a tempest of feeling, was torn,
Yet he scorn'd a weak tear, and disdained a weak sigh—
He is wedded to vengeance, or bounden to die,
For the horror-fraught fate of the victim so dear
To the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer.
On his dauntless steed borne, he hastens to ride,
On his shoulder his rifle, his sword by his side—
O'er rivers, through forests, like the swift wind he flies
To the sounds, that he pants for, the battle-field's cries.
For wedded to vengeance, and stranger to fear,
Is the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer.
On his shoulder his rifle, his sword by his side—
O'er rivers, through forests, like the swift wind he flies
To the sounds, that he pants for, the battle-field's cries.
For wedded to vengeance, and stranger to fear,
Is the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer.
Hurra, at Moravia, that battle-cry wakes,
From the ranks the dire peal of the musketry breaks.
The brave volunteer, 'midst the death-flashing cloud,
Invokes the dear name of the murdered, aloud;
Then quick to the charge, with his death-dealing blow,
Pours his wrath on the friends of the hatchet and bow.
For wedded to vengeance, a stranger to fear,
Is the soul of the hero, the brave volunteer.
From the ranks the dire peal of the musketry breaks.
The brave volunteer, 'midst the death-flashing cloud,
Invokes the dear name of the murdered, aloud;
Then quick to the charge, with his death-dealing blow,
Pours his wrath on the friends of the hatchet and bow.
For wedded to vengeance, a stranger to fear,
Is the soul of the hero, the brave volunteer.
At that dread hour of night, when his cherish'd love bled,
And her mangled form slept with the massacred dead,
He had sworn a dread oath, that his rifle and steel,
On the merciless demons, deep vengeance should deal,
For the horror-fraught fate of the victim so dear
To the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer.
Then joy to the brave volunteer, who has sped
To the wilds of the north-west, where thousands have bled,
Who, wedded to vengeance, a dread oath has sworn,
On the arms of his comrades, a corse to be borne;
Or the deep debt of vengeance in tenfold to deal
On the merciless fiends, with his rifle and steel,
For the soul-harrowing scathe of the victim so dear
To the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer.
And her mangled form slept with the massacred dead,
He had sworn a dread oath, that his rifle and steel,
On the merciless demons, deep vengeance should deal,
For the horror-fraught fate of the victim so dear
To the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer.
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To the wilds of the north-west, where thousands have bled,
Who, wedded to vengeance, a dread oath has sworn,
On the arms of his comrades, a corse to be borne;
Or the deep debt of vengeance in tenfold to deal
On the merciless fiends, with his rifle and steel,
For the soul-harrowing scathe of the victim so dear
To the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer.
THE HEROES OF THE WEST.
How sweet is the song of the festal rite,
When the bosom with rapture swells high;
When the heart, at the soft touch of pleasure, beats light,
And bright is the beam of the eye.
In the dirge, that is pour'd o'er affection's bier,
How holy an interest dwells,
When the frequent drop of the frequent tear,
The heart-rending anguish tells;
But sweeter the song that the minstrel should raise
To the patriot victor's fame,
And livelier the tones of the heart-gender'd praise,
That should wake from the harp at his name:
But holier the dirge that the minstrel should pour
O'er the fallen hero's grave,
Whose arm wields the sword for his country no more,
Who has died the death of the brave.
When the bosom with rapture swells high;
When the heart, at the soft touch of pleasure, beats light,
And bright is the beam of the eye.
In the dirge, that is pour'd o'er affection's bier,
How holy an interest dwells,
When the frequent drop of the frequent tear,
The heart-rending anguish tells;
But sweeter the song that the minstrel should raise
To the patriot victor's fame,
And livelier the tones of the heart-gender'd praise,
That should wake from the harp at his name:
But holier the dirge that the minstrel should pour
O'er the fallen hero's grave,
Whose arm wields the sword for his country no more,
Who has died the death of the brave.
There lives in the bosom a feeling sublime;
Of all, 't is the strongest tie;
Unvarying through every change of time,
And only with life does it die.
'T is the love that is borne for that lovely land,
That smiled on the hour of our birth;
'T is the love, that is planted by nature's hand,
For our sacred native earth.
'T was this that the patriot victor inspired,
Was strong in the strength of his arm,
With the holiest zeal his brave bosom fired,
And to danger and death gave a charm.
'T was this that the dying hero blest,
And hallow'd the hour when he fell,
That throbb'd in the final throb of his breast,
And heaved in his bosom's last swell:
Of all, 't is the strongest tie;
Unvarying through every change of time,
And only with life does it die.
'T is the love that is borne for that lovely land,
That smiled on the hour of our birth;
'T is the love, that is planted by nature's hand,
For our sacred native earth.
'T was this that the patriot victor inspired,
Was strong in the strength of his arm,
With the holiest zeal his brave bosom fired,
And to danger and death gave a charm.
'T was this that the dying hero blest,
And hallow'd the hour when he fell,
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And heaved in his bosom's last swell:
When a thousand swords, in a thousand hands,
To the sunbeams of heaven shone bright;
When the willing hearts of Columbia's bands,
Were firm for Columbia's right;
When the blood of the west, in the battle was pour'd,
In defence of the rights of the west;
When the blood of the east stain'd the point of the sword,
At the Eastern king's behest:
Till the angel form of returning peace,
O'er the plain and the mountain smiled—
Bade the rude blast of war from its ravage to cease,
And the sweet gale of plenty breathe mild.
She smiled—and the nation's mighty woes
Ceased to stream from the nation's eyes;
She smiled—and a fabric of wisdom arose,
And exalted its fame to the skies.
To the sunbeams of heaven shone bright;
When the willing hearts of Columbia's bands,
Were firm for Columbia's right;
When the blood of the west, in the battle was pour'd,
In defence of the rights of the west;
When the blood of the east stain'd the point of the sword,
At the Eastern king's behest:
Till the angel form of returning peace,
O'er the plain and the mountain smiled—
Bade the rude blast of war from its ravage to cease,
And the sweet gale of plenty breathe mild.
She smiled—and the nation's mighty woes
Ceased to stream from the nation's eyes;
She smiled—and a fabric of wisdom arose,
And exalted its fame to the skies.
Then firm be its base, as the giant rock
'Midst the ocean waves alone,
That the beating rain and the tempest shock,
For numberless years has borne.
And blasted the parricide arm, that shall plan
That glorious structure's fall;
But still may it sanction the rights of man,
And liberty guardian to all.
Then sweet be the song that the minstrel should raise,
To the patriot victor's fame,
And lively the tones of the heart-gender'd praise,
That should wake from the harp at his name.
Then holy the dirge that the minstrel should pour,
O'er the fallen hero's grave,
Whose hand wields the sword for his country no more,
Who has died the death of the brave.
'Midst the ocean waves alone,
That the beating rain and the tempest shock,
For numberless years has borne.
And blasted the parricide arm, that shall plan
That glorious structure's fall;
But still may it sanction the rights of man,
And liberty guardian to all.
Then sweet be the song that the minstrel should raise,
To the patriot victor's fame,
And lively the tones of the heart-gender'd praise,
That should wake from the harp at his name.
Then holy the dirge that the minstrel should pour,
O'er the fallen hero's grave,
Whose hand wields the sword for his country no more,
Who has died the death of the brave.
TURN NOT TO THE EAST.
Can the heart, which first glow'd in a far foreign seat,
For a different land feel its warm pulses beat?
Can the eye, oped not here, prop the heart-gender'd tear
On the blood that was spilt for the blessings we bear?
For a different land feel its warm pulses beat?
Can the eye, oped not here, prop the heart-gender'd tear
On the blood that was spilt for the blessings we bear?
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Turn not to the East with the eye of desire,
Turn not to the East like the sect'ry of fire;
For the wind of the East in its poison'd gale brings
The fell breath of despots, and curses of kings.
Turn not to the East like the sect'ry of fire;
For the wind of the East in its poison'd gale brings
The fell breath of despots, and curses of kings.
See the star of the West in its mild glories rise,
See the star of the West tread its path in the skies:
How sweet is the sight, while its soft radiance beams
On my native land's hills, and my native land's streams.
See the star of the West tread its path in the skies:
How sweet is the sight, while its soft radiance beams
On my native land's hills, and my native land's streams.
That star, when the proud boasting sons of the East
Have danced through their day, and have finish'd their feast—
That star then shall shine over millions more blest,
In the realms doom'd to rise in the wilds of the West.
Have danced through their day, and have finish'd their feast—
That star then shall shine over millions more blest,
In the realms doom'd to rise in the wilds of the West.
Then look to the Eastern horizon's blue bound,
As if past its precincts no mortal is found;
Then look to the Eastern horizon's red light,
As if past its rays brood oblivion and night.
As if past its precincts no mortal is found;
Then look to the Eastern horizon's red light,
As if past its rays brood oblivion and night.
Can the heart, which first glow'd in a far foreign seat,
For a different land feel its warm pulses beat?
Can the eye, oped not here, drop the heart-gender'd tear,
On the blood that was spilt for the blessings we bear?
For a different land feel its warm pulses beat?
Can the eye, oped not here, drop the heart-gender'd tear,
On the blood that was spilt for the blessings we bear?
TO A LADY.
Lady, that form so slight and fair
Was, surely, never framed to bear
The season's change, the hand of pain,
And fell disease's racking train,
That must, from year to year, attend
Life's course, till life itself shall end.
Was, surely, never framed to bear
The season's change, the hand of pain,
And fell disease's racking train,
That must, from year to year, attend
Life's course, till life itself shall end.
That heart, so pure, so soft, so good,
That scarce has yet a pang withstood,
Was, surely, never meant to bear
Grief, sorrow, wo, deceit, despair,
And all the mental ills, that rend
The human heart, till life shall end.
That scarce has yet a pang withstood,
Was, surely, never meant to bear
Grief, sorrow, wo, deceit, despair,
And all the mental ills, that rend
The human heart, till life shall end.
Some happy island far removed,
Whose groves of bliss an angel loved,
Where winter's gloom was never known,
Nor fell disease's hollow groan;
Where grief, deceit, despair and wo
Dare not their forms of horror show,
Whose groves of bliss an angel loved,
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Nor fell disease's hollow groan;
Where grief, deceit, despair and wo
Dare not their forms of horror show,
Lady, was placed thy destined lot—
But fate, that destiny forgot;
Or, envious of thy blissful state,
Some fiend of earth, and earthly hate,
Gave thee to pain and sorrow here—
Betray'd thee to this world of care.
But fate, that destiny forgot;
Or, envious of thy blissful state,
Some fiend of earth, and earthly hate,
Gave thee to pain and sorrow here—
Betray'd thee to this world of care.
| Specimens of American poetry | |