Specimens of American poetry :: :: University of Virginia Library

O! may we not weep for the loved who have fled
From our presence on earth, though their home be in heaven;
And may not our tears at the grave of the dead,
When flowing in silence and hope, be forgiven?
Shall death seize unheeded the friends of our bosom,
The fairest and mildest in life's lovely bloom;
And throw them, unmourn'd, like the funeral blossom,
To fade and corrode in the damps of the tomb?
O! may we not sorrow for those who have fled
From our presence on earth, though their home be in heaven;
And may not our tears at the grave of the dead,
When flowing in silence and hope, be forgiven?

Unmoved shall we wake from the dreams we enjoy'd,
And find all our visions by death rudely torn?
Our peace by the sweeping blast rent and destroy'd—
Like brutes shall we brook, or like man shall we mourn?
For, though quietly seal'd in the sepulchre's slumber,
The forms of our valued companions repose;
E'en though with the spirits of bliss THEY may number,
Yet may we not weep for OUR wasteness and woes?

378

Then say not, ye piously stern, that our grief
Should be quench'd in oblivion, or frigidly borne:—
When the mildews of fate blight the young tender leaf,
'T is Nature's COMMAND, and MAN'S DUTY, to mourn.

THE PATRIOT'S GRAVE.

On the spot where my war-couch stood,
Where my spring-time of fame was pass'd,
Where the patriot's prayer, and the hero's blood
Pour'd fervently and fast—

Where the spirit of glory stole
O'er my earliest and brightest dream,
With the trumpet's blast and the drum's rude roll,
And the falchion's dazzling gleam—

Lay me down on that hallow'd spot—
Long in peace I may there remain;
For the foeman's standard now waveth not
On yonder battle-plain.

When this weary and struggling soul
From its bondage of clay hath fled,
Make my humble grave on yon grassy knoll,
'T is a meet and quiet bed!

On its brow there 's a blasted oak,
Like its withering branch am I;
Yet though ravens there may be heard to croak,
Heaven's softest breeze shall sigh:—

And, my children, a stream glides there,
Gently laving its verdant base;—
Of perennial bliss 't is an emblem fair—
It shall mark my resting place!

Once the proud and the gallant tread
Of the warrior press'd that mound;
But his comrades soon o'er the prostrate dead
May pour the farewell round.

379

And when cometh my final strife,
Let me be with my comforter,
That the last fond gaze of expiring life
Be consecrate to her.

Then if far, far beyond the grave,
Be the memory's employment free,
It shall cherish the look that affection gave,
In all eternity!

O! 't is sweet, when my task is done,
Thus to witness my banner furl'd:—
When the storm is spent, so the setting sun
Smiles on a parting world!

POWERS OF RHYME.

People do n't commonly discern
The difference 'twixt POETRY and RHYME:
The former can be made to thrill and burn,
By master geniuses—and yet
No two words shall together chime.
E'en Prose, so called, may be po-et-
I-cal, and ring upon the ear
Harmoniously, without a grain of jingle;
While Rhyme, all sound, with oftentimes
No symptom of idea,
Clinking, like handfuls of new dimes,
Causes one's very brain to tingle.

Some folks, new words will manufacture,
That have no sense nor meaning:—
They would denominate a crack a cracture,
Or, to make rhyme, call obloquy obscening!

The name of my French friend, Piemont,
(A name that 's smooth enough in song,)
Has often been distorted into Pie-mont—
A hill of pies!—just to make rhyme on't!

This brings me to the tale that I was going
To tell, of Toby Grizzle, a rough clown
Who grew up in the country—for in town
The folks are polish'd, and extremely knowing.

380

Toby had never seen great towns and cities,
Where houses grow together by the acre;
To die then, and see only what his Maker
Had done in lands, and woods, and cattle—
Thought Toby, “'twere a thousand pities;
So, down to Boston, in my cart I'll rattle.”

So down he went,
And turn'd up at the Indian Queen;
Amazement and astonishment—
At what he saw,
And what was to be seen,
Hung heavily upon his under-jaw.
This made him hungry, and he bought
A yard of gingerbread to stay his yearnings,
And after various crooks and turnings
He got into the parlor, as he thought;
But, reader, 't was the kitchen—
So droll was everything—and so bewitching.

The cook, of his poetic powers was boasting;
Betwixt whom and the scullion there arose
A disputation, whether rhyme or prose
Most clear ideas convey'd—

—Beef was there roasting
By dint of a huge jack—custom antique!
“Now,” quoth the cook, “I'll speak
In verse to this fat lout, and ascertain
Whether my rhymes be not, to all men, plain.”

Says he to Toby, “May I be so bold
As to inquire how many hours have roll'd
Since you into these regions stroll'd?”
Quoth Toby, casting up his eager looks
To where the giddy jack-wheel whirl'd—
“Odsbludikins, and snaggers! rat it, and adzooks!
Your clock goes faster than aunt Katy's;
And I'll be skinn'd and darn'd, for all the world,
If I can see to tell what time o' day 't is.”