 | Specimens of American poetry |  |
Far down Ohio's vale, the pilgrim sees
The rank grass floating, in the grateful breeze,
Above the hallow'd mould, where sleep the brave
Of ages past, in the neglected grave;
And of the peasant, as his labors turn
The whitening bones above their earthly urn,
Pauses a moment, o'er his reckless share,
To wonder whose sad relics moulder there:
Yet, nor the peasant nor the pilgrim knows
The record of their fame, the story of their woes.
But viewless spirits linger round the scene
Where valor, worth and glory erst have been;
Bidding each gale, as far its sweets are shed,
Sigh nature's requiem o'er the mighty dead:
While their high harps, responsive, wake again
The echoes of the sadly-pleasing strain,
To prompt from pity's eye the willing tear
And tell their wondrous tale in Fancy's ear.
The rank grass floating, in the grateful breeze,
Above the hallow'd mould, where sleep the brave
Of ages past, in the neglected grave;
And of the peasant, as his labors turn
The whitening bones above their earthly urn,
Pauses a moment, o'er his reckless share,
To wonder whose sad relics moulder there:
Yet, nor the peasant nor the pilgrim knows
The record of their fame, the story of their woes.
But viewless spirits linger round the scene
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Bidding each gale, as far its sweets are shed,
Sigh nature's requiem o'er the mighty dead:
While their high harps, responsive, wake again
The echoes of the sadly-pleasing strain,
To prompt from pity's eye the willing tear
And tell their wondrous tale in Fancy's ear.
Soothed by the sound, the native minstrel caught
A portion of the lay their numbers taught,
And from his rustic lyre, by Freedom strung
Its plaintive wild-notes fearlessly he flung.
Rude is the theme he chose, and small the praise
He claims, to recompense his artless lays:
Content, if Genius, from her boundless mines,
Hath lent one gem, to deck the wreath he twines;
Or taste shall find one native flowret there,
Which claims her plaudits and his country's care.
A portion of the lay their numbers taught,
And from his rustic lyre, by Freedom strung
Its plaintive wild-notes fearlessly he flung.
Rude is the theme he chose, and small the praise
He claims, to recompense his artless lays:
Content, if Genius, from her boundless mines,
Hath lent one gem, to deck the wreath he twines;
Or taste shall find one native flowret there,
Which claims her plaudits and his country's care.
To thee, my country! and to thine, belong
The fame, the labors of thy “sons of song:”
Be thine, henceforth, the pleasing task, to give
The boon which bids that fame, those labors live;
Nor deem, of course, the chaplet little worth,
Whose wreaths are twined from flowers of native growth.
Proud of their freedom, let thy children be
In taste and science, as in spirit, free;
So shall thy daring minstrels soon aspire
With bolder sweep to wake the slumbering lyre;
Till, o'er the broad Atlantic echoing round,
Admiring Europe hail the heavenly sound,
And, roused to rapture by its magic charms,
Confess thy bards as matchless as thy arms.
The fame, the labors of thy “sons of song:”
Be thine, henceforth, the pleasing task, to give
The boon which bids that fame, those labors live;
Nor deem, of course, the chaplet little worth,
Whose wreaths are twined from flowers of native growth.
Proud of their freedom, let thy children be
In taste and science, as in spirit, free;
So shall thy daring minstrels soon aspire
With bolder sweep to wake the slumbering lyre;
Till, o'er the broad Atlantic echoing round,
Admiring Europe hail the heavenly sound,
And, roused to rapture by its magic charms,
Confess thy bards as matchless as thy arms.
| Specimens of American poetry | |