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The battle of Niagara

second edition - enlarged : with other poems

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69

PRELIMINARY POEM.

'TWAS night, and the breath of the tempest was near;
And her plumes were unfolded abroad o'er the sky;
The lightnings were held in their struggling career;
And the song of the waters went patiently by.
A heaviness was in the air,
As if some hovering shape were there,
With languid wing, and floating hair,
Some cloudy one, whose sluggish flight,
Was stooping to a dreary home;
And hung beneath the vault of night,
As if to intercept the light,
That, bursting wide, and flashing bright,
Rolled o'er the clouds in pulpy foam:
All were as still, in heaven and earth,
As they that watch'd Creation's birth—
When O!—a sudden trumpet-blast,
Burst loudly on the ear!—and past—
Then came the roll of drums!—and high
The cannon's voice went thundering by!—
And then—the thrilling bugle cry!

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And then—amid the clouds—were heard
Strange—fearful echoes to the song;
And o'er the skies there shrieked some bird,
That went on viewless wing along!
And then—a far tumultuous sound,
Beyond the hills, went rolling out;
As if a sleeping host had found
A sudden resurrection there—
And burst the ground—
And starting up the midnight air
Pealed all at once their battle-shout!
As if a multitude had risen,
The giants of our warring race,
Amid the solitudes of space,
And heaved their everlasting prison—
Some mountain!—from its base!
And countless wings arose—and by
They swept with warrior-minstrelsy—
Like that ye hear amid the sky,
While, in the pauses of the storm,
Some air-blown trump—is laughing clear
In distant worlds!—and harps are near,
And pipes are breathing in your ear;
When the strong wind comes out again—
Bearing away the wondrous strain:
Sweeping from earth the minstrel-form.
And then—oh then!—there went a cry
Just like the song of victory,

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When dying men rise up, and peal
Their last triumphant shout,
With all the strength, that warriors feel,
When life is ebbing out:
When—on the air, and up the sky,
A crowded—thick—far whispering goes;
And vapoury hosts appear on high,
Sweeping and jostling giddily;
As if some sudden trump had blown;
And answering quick, had upward flown
The thronging dead!—and each had found
His mortal enemy again—
Just as upon the battle ground,
They parted last—among the slain!
As if an angry world arose—
On shadowy steeds, amid the sky
And heaven itself were filled with foes—
That fought them battles o'er on high—
In warring immortality.
As if the earth—as if the main—
The crimson wave—the crimson plain
Had yielded up their dead again—
In blood and foam—just as they died—
Upon the earth—upon the tide!
Then a minstrel was seen, and a vision came forth,
Like a cold troubled light, o'er the clouds of the north,

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And the look of the minstrel was lifted and high:
And the lights of the storm and the lights of the sky,
While his robe was abroad on the breeze that went by,
Were flashing and wild in the dark of his eye:
A moment he paused—and his look was upraised:
Then he started—and shook—like a creature amazed—
For lo!—all the strength of his soul was revealed—
The thunder rolled out!—and the near lightning blazed,
And he turned him away from the vault where he gazed,
As if he had seen—what its darkness concealed!
The thunder rolled out!—yet he stood all alone—
Exulting—like one that's recovered a throne.—
A harp was before him—his hand in the air,
Yet it paused e'er it fell on his echoing lyre,
And trembled and dwelt, as uplifted in prayer—
Niagara roll'd!—and the battle was there!
The pealing of thunder—and rushing of fire!
The future in pomp was assembled before him—
He felt as the pinions of prophecy bore him;
And yet, for the dreams of his morning had flown,
His heart was oppressed with a terror unknown.
The chill of the night on his spirit was shed,
Like the damps that abide on the brow of the dead:
But more than the murmurs of night were around,
When he stooped o'er his harp and awakened a sound;
For voices were heard in the air!
Like the stirring that comes from the tenanted ground
When revelry wanders there!

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Yet thrice he smote the palsied strings,
And thrice he heard the rush of wings,
And feeble murmurings rose!
As if some startled spirit fled—
Some soldier's guard—where he had bled—
Disturbed in her repose!
As if some warrior raised his head,
And listened from his bloody bed,
To requiems o'er his foes!
The minstrel left the field of blood;
And stood above the mighty flood;
And listened to his stormy voice;
And heard it on the winds rejoice;
And there—he would have sung—but there,
The awe he felt was in the air—
Was all about—was every where:
Then he stood on a cliff, when the Morning unrolled
Her banners of crimson, and purple, and gold;
Her plumage, and robe with its changeable fold;
And felt, as he saw all these splendours outspread,
As if he had gone where some mighty-one slumbers,
With the ruins of song, and the relicks of numbers;
Who 'woke as he heard the unhallowed tread!
Yet—yet 'twas an impulse may never be quenched:
The fountains that burst where the light hath its source—
Or cherubim wings, may be stayed in their course,

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When they lighten along where the storm is entrenched;
Her spear, from the Angel of night, may be wrenched;
Or the plumage of Peace in the battle be drenched,—
When it bends o'er the strife, like the bow of the sky,
Or the light that is seen in a martyr'd-one's eye;—
Before you may still the tumultuous voice
Of a heart that is heaving with song;
Before ye may silence the lyres that rejoice,
Where the wind from the water comes sweeping along;
And the chorus of mountain and cavern is strong.
The minstrel smote his harp once more;
And loudly then, there went this strain,
Unsteadily, from shore to shore,
And died along the distant main.
My country! my home! sunny land of my fathers!
Where empires unknown in bright solitudes lie;
Where Nature, august in serenity, gathers
The wonders of mountain, and ocean, and sky:
Where the blue dome of heaven scarce bounds her dominion:
Where man is as free as the creatures of air;
As thine Eagle—of fleet, uncontrollable pinion;
The gallant gray Bird of the winds! that is there.
That eagle, whose spirit each morning renews,
As her god thro' unquenchable light she pursues,
And tosses her plumes to the trumpet acclaim:—
To the rushing of wings, and the screaming of praise,
That her starry-eyed nurslings in ecstacy raise,

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As they mount, with their bosoms all bare, in the blaze
Of their idol, whose temple is curtained with flame!
My country! my home! in whose hallowed retreats,
An horizon of blue, with a blue water meets,
'Till the whole like one ocean appears!
'Till the eye that dwells long on the faint, distant verge,
Bewildered to see the fresh islets emerge,
Like evergreen grottoes redeemed from the surge,
Overflows—in the worship of tears!
Where the sun travels low in his chariot of light;
And the stars and the hills are together at night:
Where the lustre that Day at his parting hath shed,
In one blush, o'er the land and the water is spread:
And swims like a wreath on each mountain's proud head;
And dwells on the night,
Of each cliff's stormy height—
Whose foliage hangs loosely and wildly in air,
Like a meteor-diadem,—dropped in the flight
Of those, who are forth in the storm and the fight,
O'er the plumage of ravens that warrior-helms wear.
There the Thunderers stand! in their fortress of shade;
Like a guard that some god in his might hath arrayed:
Where the foam-mantled tides, as they rush from each pole,
Whose warrings have shaken the thrones of the deep,

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Embrace in one lasting and measureless roll,
And sink—with the lulling of tempests, to sleep:
Where Dominion is stayed by a cliff-guarded shore;
Where Empire looks out from her heights o'er the sea:
Where Peace is at home—and the thunders that roar,
And not the dread voices that nations deplore,
But—the bounding of water that's free!
Where all that moves in storm along:
The earthquake's voice—the torrent's song,
The uproar of the skies, when Night
Leads forth her champions to the fight:
The elemental chant—and roll
Of thunders—crowding to the pole—
Or—when the heaven is cloudless—bright;
And hearts are swelling with delight,
And eyes are lifted cheerfully;
That—o'er the blue and boundless sky—
Like some archangel's trump on high!
Break suddenly, and fearfully!
The ocean—when it rolls aloud—
The tempest—bursting from her cloud,
In one uninterrupted peal!
When darkness sits amid the sky;
And shadowy forms go trooping by;
And everlasting mountains reel—
All—all of this is Freedom's song—
'Tis pealed—'tis pealed eternally!
And all, that winds and waves prolong,
Are anthems rolled to Liberty!

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Land of the mountain—and the wood—
The wonders of their giant race;
Creation's barrier! Thou hast stood
Upon thy lofty dwelling place—
Unshaken by contending mains,
That thundered in thy rocky chains:
Immoveably—thy hills arise,
Above the clouds that gather there—
Like islands in the empty skies—
Green spots, revealed to gifted eyes—
Amid the pale blue air:
Just like the blessed islets seen—
By Indians—in the trance of death;
Peopled with naked girls, and green
With fresh and waving grass—and bright
With never-ending sunny light—
Where all the wind is like the breath
Of Indian girls in chase:
Where all the leaves are glossy;
And all the seats are mossy—
And all about the brooks, are thrown
Ten thousand wild flowers, newly blown:
Unyielding still, though oceans wage
One loud—perpetual war with thee:
And all the elements engage
For ever—round thy royalty:
Enthroned, thou sittest still,
Upon thy loftiest hill,

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Columbia!—child of heaven!
While all the world is thundering round—
To thee 'tis given,
To sit secure—and hear the sound
Of earthquakes—oceans—in their rage—
Within their secret hiding place,
Toiling at thine eternal base.
Home of the waters! where their strength
Rolls in immeasurable length:
Or, tumbling from their cloudy thrones,
As thundering from a, battlement,
With martial hymning, like the tones
Of battle-shout, by warriors sent—
Go rioting in foam and spray,
With rainbow-streamers o'er their way,
Beneath the precipice they've rent;
Exulting—as they burst their cloud—
As high—as dazzling—and as loud—
As sheets of light! in their descent
Thro' midnight's parting firmament!
Where such the measure of the sky,
That storms may pass unheeded by;
And such the pillar'd strength of earth,
So strong its adamantine chain,
That when convulsion finds a birth,
That birth is ever found in vain:
The tumult in its weakness dies,
Unheeded by the earth or skies.

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Land of the hero, the patriot, and sage!
Of warriors, whose deeds have unfettered the wave,
Whose standard looks forth where the whirlwinds engage,
And battles aloft—in the realms of the brave!
Whose Genius came forth from the home of the flood,
And strove with the pirate's red banner on high,
'Till the foam of the ocean was tinged with his blood—
Filled the air with her rainbows!—and fearlessly stood,
And loosened her eaglets abroad o'er the sky!
Of men, who have fought with the high Briton too,
As he sat on his throne in his empire of blue;
'Till the scarlet-crossed banner that majesty bent,
Had faded and fled from its home in the sky:
'Till its terrors went off, as its splendours were rent,
Like meteors that over the firmament fly,
And threw, as they passed o'er the free-rolling tide,
A deep ruddy tint—'twas the last blush of pride.
Land of white bosoms, and blue laughing-eyes!
Like miniature pictures of transparent skies,
Where young thoughts, like the blessed, are seen;
May those eyes brighten quick at the tale that I tell!
And O, if it wake but one white bosom's swell;
One heart where dear feeling hath been;
One pulse that has throbbed in the still of the night,
In the dream of its soldier afar in the fight,
I'm repaid for it over and over:
And Columbia may wake when she hears the loud strain,

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And stoop o'er the graves of her children again,
And weep o'er the garlands they wove her:
And many a bard of my country, who slumbers,
Neglected—forgotten—oppressed or unknown—
May arise in his strength, in the grandeur of numbers,
Sublime on the height of a star-lighted throne—
And pour out his musick aloft and alone—
On the wind of the sky!—and assert his high claim
With those who are up for the chaplet of Fame.