 | The harp and plow |  |
169
SONGS.
171
LAMENT OF THE CHEROKEE.
O, soft falls the dew, in the twilight descending,
And tall grows the shadowy hill on the plain;
And night o'er the far distant forest is bending,
Like the storm-spirit, dark, o'er the tremulous main;
But midnight enshrouds my lone heart in its dwelling,
A tumult of woe in my bosom is swelling,
And a tear, unbefitting the warrior, is telling
That Hope has abandoned the brave Cherokee!
And tall grows the shadowy hill on the plain;
And night o'er the far distant forest is bending,
Like the storm-spirit, dark, o'er the tremulous main;
But midnight enshrouds my lone heart in its dwelling,
A tumult of woe in my bosom is swelling,
And a tear, unbefitting the warrior, is telling
That Hope has abandoned the brave Cherokee!
Can a tree that is torn from its root by the fountain,
The pride of the valley, green-spreading and fair,
Can it flourish removed to the rock of the mountain,
Unwarmed by the sun and unwatered by care?
Though Vesper be kind her sweet dews in bestowing,
No life-giving brook in its shadow is flowing,
And when the chill winds of the desert are blowing,
So droops the transplanted and lone Cherokee!
The pride of the valley, green-spreading and fair,
Can it flourish removed to the rock of the mountain,
Unwarmed by the sun and unwatered by care?
Though Vesper be kind her sweet dews in bestowing,
No life-giving brook in its shadow is flowing,
And when the chill winds of the desert are blowing,
So droops the transplanted and lone Cherokee!
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Loved graves of my sires! have I left you forever?
How melted my heart when I bade you adieu!
Shall joy light the face of the Indian?—ah, never!
While memory sad has the power to renew.
As flies the fleet deer when the blood-hound is started,
So fled winged Hope from the poor broken-hearted;
O, could she have turned, ere for ever departed,
And beckoned with smiles to her sad Cherokee!
How melted my heart when I bade you adieu!
Shall joy light the face of the Indian?—ah, never!
While memory sad has the power to renew.
As flies the fleet deer when the blood-hound is started,
So fled winged Hope from the poor broken-hearted;
O, could she have turned, ere for ever departed,
And beckoned with smiles to her sad Cherokee!
Is it the low wind through the wet willows rushing,
That fills with wild numbers my listening ear?
Or is some hermit-rill, in the solitude gushing,
The strange-playing minstrel, whose music I hear?
'T is the voice of my father, slow, solemnly stealing,
I see his dim form, where the gloom gathers, kneeling,
To the God of the white man, the Christian, appealing;
He prays for the foe of the dark Cherokee!
That fills with wild numbers my listening ear?
Or is some hermit-rill, in the solitude gushing,
The strange-playing minstrel, whose music I hear?
'T is the voice of my father, slow, solemnly stealing,
I see his dim form, where the gloom gathers, kneeling,
To the God of the white man, the Christian, appealing;
He prays for the foe of the dark Cherokee!
Great Spirit of Good, whose abode is the heaven,
Whose wampum of peace is the bow in the sky,
Wilt Thou give to the wants of the clamorous raven,
Yet turn a deaf ear to my piteous cry?
O'er the ruins of home, o'er my heart's desolation,
No more shalt thou hear my unblest lamentation;
For death's dark encounter I make preparation,
He hears the last groan of the wild Cherokee!
Whose wampum of peace is the bow in the sky,
Wilt Thou give to the wants of the clamorous raven,
Yet turn a deaf ear to my piteous cry?
O'er the ruins of home, o'er my heart's desolation,
No more shalt thou hear my unblest lamentation;
For death's dark encounter I make preparation,
He hears the last groan of the wild Cherokee!
173
THE ADIEU.
Sad was the hour when for the sea
My Willie left his home!
The day was bright with spring's delight,
But round my heart was gloom.
I thought on ocean's perils wild,
The changes, too, of years;
That waters wide should us divide
Forever, were my fears.
My Willie left his home!
The day was bright with spring's delight,
But round my heart was gloom.
I thought on ocean's perils wild,
The changes, too, of years;
That waters wide should us divide
Forever, were my fears.
I see him as at parting, now;
His calm and manly air;
His eye that glowed, no tear bestowed,
Yet sorrow still was there;
He grasped me warmly by the hand,
He murmured but my name:
The words were few at our adieu,
For words we could not frame.
His calm and manly air;
His eye that glowed, no tear bestowed,
Yet sorrow still was there;
He grasped me warmly by the hand,
He murmured but my name:
The words were few at our adieu,
For words we could not frame.
The wind blows freshly from the sea,
A ship is off the shore;
But ah! I know no breeze will blow
To waft poor Willie o'er.
Full low on ocean's bed he lies,
Above, the billows play;
The waters wide will us divide
Forever,—till THE DAY!
A ship is off the shore;
But ah! I know no breeze will blow
To waft poor Willie o'er.
Full low on ocean's bed he lies,
Above, the billows play;
The waters wide will us divide
Forever,—till THE DAY!
174
THE BANKS OF MAUMEE.
I stood in a dream on the banks of Maumee;
'T was Autumn, and nature seemed wrapt in decay;
The wind moaning swept thro' the shivering tree,
The leaf from the bough drifted slowly away;
The gray-eagle screamed on the marge of the stream,
The solitudes answered the Bird of the Free;
All lonely and sad was the scene of my dream,
And mournful the hour on the banks of Maumee.
'T was Autumn, and nature seemed wrapt in decay;
The wind moaning swept thro' the shivering tree,
The leaf from the bough drifted slowly away;
The gray-eagle screamed on the marge of the stream,
The solitudes answered the Bird of the Free;
All lonely and sad was the scene of my dream,
And mournful the hour on the banks of Maumee.
A form passed before me—a vision of one
Who mourned for his nation, his country, and kin;
He walked on the shores, now deserted and lone,
Where the homes of his tribe, in their glory, had been;
And thought after thought o'er his sad spirit stole,
As wave follows wave o'er the turbulent sea;
And thus lamentation he breathed from his soul
O'er the ruins of home, on the banks of Maumee:—
Who mourned for his nation, his country, and kin;
He walked on the shores, now deserted and lone,
Where the homes of his tribe, in their glory, had been;
And thought after thought o'er his sad spirit stole,
As wave follows wave o'er the turbulent sea;
And thus lamentation he breathed from his soul
O'er the ruins of home, on the banks of Maumee:—
175
As the hunter at morn, in the snows of the wild,
Recalls to his mind the sweet visions of night
When sleep, softly falling, his sorrows beguiled,
And opened his eyes in the land of delight,—
So backward I muse on the dream of my youth;
Ye peace-giving hours! O, when did ye flee?
When the Christian neglected his pages of truth,
And the Great Spirit frowned on the banks of Maumee.
Recalls to his mind the sweet visions of night
When sleep, softly falling, his sorrows beguiled,
And opened his eyes in the land of delight,—
So backward I muse on the dream of my youth;
Ye peace-giving hours! O, when did ye flee?
When the Christian neglected his pages of truth,
And the Great Spirit frowned on the banks of Maumee.
Oppression has lifted his iron-like rod
And smitten my people again and again;
The whiteman has said there is justice with God,—
Will he hear the poor Indian before him complain?
Sees he not how his children are worn and oppres'd?
How driven in exile?—O! can he not see?
And I, in the garments of heaviness dress'd,
The last of my tribe on the banks of Maumee?
And smitten my people again and again;
The whiteman has said there is justice with God,—
Will he hear the poor Indian before him complain?
Sees he not how his children are worn and oppres'd?
How driven in exile?—O! can he not see?
And I, in the garments of heaviness dress'd,
The last of my tribe on the banks of Maumee?
Ye trees! on whose branches my cradle was hung,
Must I yield you a prey to the axe and the fire?
Ye shores! where the chant of the pow-wow was sung,
Have ye witnessed the light of the council expire?
Pale ghosts of my fathers, who battled of yore!
Is the Great Spirit just in the land where ye be?
While life lasts dejected I'll wander this shore,
And join you at last from the banks of Maumee.
Must I yield you a prey to the axe and the fire?
Ye shores! where the chant of the pow-wow was sung,
Have ye witnessed the light of the council expire?
Pale ghosts of my fathers, who battled of yore!
Is the Great Spirit just in the land where ye be?
While life lasts dejected I'll wander this shore,
And join you at last from the banks of Maumee.
176
THE MINUTE-MAN.
It was on the banks of Hoosic, in days of long ago,
Where then, as now, its waters bless the farmer as they flow;—
It was in the vale of Hoosic a father and his son
Were dwelling, on the day before the day at Bennington.
Where then, as now, its waters bless the farmer as they flow;—
It was in the vale of Hoosic a father and his son
Were dwelling, on the day before the day at Bennington.
Along the river stretching was spread a fertile plain;
There sire and son were thrusting in the hook amidst the grain;
While near at hand their cottage stood half hidden from the sight,
By trees that wooed the birds by day and sheltered them by night.
There sire and son were thrusting in the hook amidst the grain;
While near at hand their cottage stood half hidden from the sight,
By trees that wooed the birds by day and sheltered them by night.
The good wife plied her needle within the cottage door;
Her babe the cat was watching, catching flies upon the floor;
It was a sweet domestic scene,—sweet both to sire and son,
That blessed them on the day before the day at Bennington.
Her babe the cat was watching, catching flies upon the floor;
It was a sweet domestic scene,—sweet both to sire and son,
That blessed them on the day before the day at Bennington.
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When suddenly, and vision-like, before them there appeared,
A form of soldier bearing, full of martial presence reared;
He was clad in regimentals—a gleaming sword his pride;
The father heard his errand, and he laid his hook aside.
A form of soldier bearing, full of martial presence reared;
He was clad in regimentals—a gleaming sword his pride;
The father heard his errand, and he laid his hook aside.
Then toward the cottage went the sire, with calm, determined air,
And took from o'er the mantle-tree his gun that rested there;
Farewell! farewell, dear wife! said he; farewell, my children dear!
My country calls aloud for me, I may not linger here!
And took from o'er the mantle-tree his gun that rested there;
Farewell! farewell, dear wife! said he; farewell, my children dear!
My country calls aloud for me, I may not linger here!
‘Weep not for me to break mine heart,’ he spoke like sainted Paul,
Behold I leave you, knowing not what thing shall me befall;
My life is staked for Liberty—in after years, my son,
Remember this, the day before the day at Bennington!
Behold I leave you, knowing not what thing shall me befall;
My life is staked for Liberty—in after years, my son,
Remember this, the day before the day at Bennington!
That son is now an aged man, his head is silvered o'er;
He tills the same plantation that his father tilled before;
And lessons many he has read in life's histronic page,
His words are those of sound import, his wisdom that of age.
He tills the same plantation that his father tilled before;
And lessons many he has read in life's histronic page,
His words are those of sound import, his wisdom that of age.
He 's a lover, too, of Liberty; and to his children tells
This reason why that love so strong within his bosom dwells:
‘Last time I saw my sire alive was when he took his gun,
And left us on the day before the day at Bennington.’
This reason why that love so strong within his bosom dwells:
‘Last time I saw my sire alive was when he took his gun,
And left us on the day before the day at Bennington.’
178
THE EAGLES OF COLUMBIA.
A NATIONAL SONG.
The Eagles of Columbia!
How gallantly they fly,
With vengeance in their awful swoop,
With lightning in their eye!—
When perched upon our standard bright
Above the stripes and stars,
They shall wave o'er the brave
In the thunder-storm of Mars.
How gallantly they fly,
With vengeance in their awful swoop,
With lightning in their eye!—
When perched upon our standard bright
Above the stripes and stars,
They shall wave o'er the brave
In the thunder-storm of Mars.
The colors of Columbia!—
Her son who roams the earth,
Tho' frozen at the icy pole,
Or scorched on Cancer's hearth,
Shall look upon them, and forget
His sufferings and woes,
For they wave o'er the brave
Where the breeze of ocean blows.
Her son who roams the earth,
Tho' frozen at the icy pole,
Or scorched on Cancer's hearth,
Shall look upon them, and forget
His sufferings and woes,
For they wave o'er the brave
Where the breeze of ocean blows.
The soldier, ere the signal flies
Along the waiting line,
Beholds his country's bird with pride
And kindles at the shrine!
Resolved thro' blood and carnage dire
To bear it safely, for
It shall wave o'er the brave
In the sulphur cloud of war.
Along the waiting line,
Beholds his country's bird with pride
And kindles at the shrine!
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To bear it safely, for
It shall wave o'er the brave
In the sulphur cloud of war.
The sailor, ere the foeman strikes,
Aloft shall glance his eye
To where, fast-nailed for victory,
Columbia's colors fly;
And when the vollied thunder breaks,
Forth-ushering death and woe,
They shall wave o'er the brave
On the gory decks below.
Aloft shall glance his eye
To where, fast-nailed for victory,
Columbia's colors fly;
And when the vollied thunder breaks,
Forth-ushering death and woe,
They shall wave o'er the brave
On the gory decks below.
When Peace, with all her smiling train,
Moves sweetly thro' the land,
And patriots to their homes retire
And sheathe the glittering brand—
Victoriously our Eagles fly
When war's commotions cease;
They shall wave o'er the brave
In the stilling beams of Peace.
Moves sweetly thro' the land,
And patriots to their homes retire
And sheathe the glittering brand—
Victoriously our Eagles fly
When war's commotions cease;
They shall wave o'er the brave
In the stilling beams of Peace.
180
FREEDOM'S OWN.
New England is a glorious land,
Fast anchored by the sea!
Her mountains high that lift the sky
Are altars of the free!
Are altars of the free, and they
Are Freedom's bulwarks bold;
Though all the world defiance hurled,
She's safe in her strong hold.
Fast anchored by the sea!
Her mountains high that lift the sky
Are altars of the free!
Are altars of the free, and they
Are Freedom's bulwarks bold;
Though all the world defiance hurled,
She's safe in her strong hold.
Forth on her mission round the world
Fair Freedom sought a home;
Now paused and wrought, now battles fought,
But still compelled to roam;
Till soaring, eagle-like, she saw
New England's hills appear,
Then ceased her flight, and with delight
She came and rested here.
Fair Freedom sought a home;
Now paused and wrought, now battles fought,
But still compelled to roam;
Till soaring, eagle-like, she saw
New England's hills appear,
Then ceased her flight, and with delight
She came and rested here.
And here she built her sacred shrine,
Here lit her Vestal flame;
Here watched and feared, a race she reared,
And called them by her name.
New England's sons are Freedom's own,—
The tyrant is their scorn;
No earthly power can chain an hour
The true New England born.
Here lit her Vestal flame;
Here watched and feared, a race she reared,
And called them by her name.
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The tyrant is their scorn;
No earthly power can chain an hour
The true New England born.
New England's sons are everywhere,
In every clime they roam;
They're brave, they're strong, and never long
Forgetful of their home.
New England's dead are everywhere,
In every clime they rest;
And ocean's wave is th' mighty grave
Of her noblest and her best.
In every clime they roam;
They're brave, they're strong, and never long
Forgetful of their home.
New England's dead are everywhere,
In every clime they rest;
And ocean's wave is th' mighty grave
Of her noblest and her best.
Then here's to Freedom's blessed name!
And here is to her own!
Yet land and sea her own shall be,
And tyrants be unknown.
We'll spread her colors to the breeze,
We'll bear her eagle crest;
Then should she roam she'll find a home
Wherever she may rest!
And here is to her own!
Yet land and sea her own shall be,
And tyrants be unknown.
We'll spread her colors to the breeze,
We'll bear her eagle crest;
Then should she roam she'll find a home
Wherever she may rest!
182
DOWN BY THE BROOK WHERE WILLOWS GREEN.
Down by the brook, where willows green
Spring to the zephyr and the sun;
Where the bright wavelets, glancing seen,
Eternal murmur as they run;—
I pause to ponder on their flow;
While forward swift the waters run,
Backward as swift will memory go
To days when life with me begun.
Spring to the zephyr and the sun;
Where the bright wavelets, glancing seen,
Eternal murmur as they run;—
I pause to ponder on their flow;
While forward swift the waters run,
Backward as swift will memory go
To days when life with me begun.
As dreamy music fills my ear,—
The voiceful hum of waters sweet,
The long, bright days again appear
That used my infant eyes to greet.
Companions of those golden hours
Rise from the past, and round me stand;
Long since they perished ‘like the flowers!’
Long since they sought the spirit land!
The voiceful hum of waters sweet,
The long, bright days again appear
That used my infant eyes to greet.
Companions of those golden hours
Rise from the past, and round me stand;
Long since they perished ‘like the flowers!’
Long since they sought the spirit land!
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I love to think upon those days;
The early found, the early lost;
Aye memory sings her sweetest lays
When strung her lyre at dearest cost.
The cares of life the present fill,
They all engross, the heart, the hand;
But from the past, at times, there will
Break gleamings like the better land.
The early found, the early lost;
Aye memory sings her sweetest lays
When strung her lyre at dearest cost.
The cares of life the present fill,
They all engross, the heart, the hand;
But from the past, at times, there will
Break gleamings like the better land.
184
‘BY THE DEEP NINE!’
When wearing off the shore with the breakers on the lee,
And shrill winds are piping to the thunder of the sea;
As the shoal deeper grows, it becalms the sailor's fears,
As trembling he listens, and the saving call he hears:—
‘By the deep nine! by the deep nine!’
And shrill winds are piping to the thunder of the sea;
As the shoal deeper grows, it becalms the sailor's fears,
As trembling he listens, and the saving call he hears:—
‘By the deep nine! by the deep nine!’
When murky is the night, and the misty wind is free,
When black scowls the sky above, and blacker, still, the sea;
When doubtful is the land-fall that dimly looms a-head,
Then ye'll heave to, my hearties!—bear a hand with the lead:—
‘By the deep nine! by the deep nine!’
When black scowls the sky above, and blacker, still, the sea;
When doubtful is the land-fall that dimly looms a-head,
Then ye'll heave to, my hearties!—bear a hand with the lead:—
‘By the deep nine! by the deep nine!’
Lashed fast o'er the drenching waves, the hardy sailor stands;
His eye is quick and certain, and ready are his hands;
Right cheerily o'erhead, then, the plunging lead he swings,—
Down, deeper down, it goes, and he musically sings:—
‘By the deep nine! by the deep nine!’
His eye is quick and certain, and ready are his hands;
Right cheerily o'erhead, then, the plunging lead he swings,—
Down, deeper down, it goes, and he musically sings:—
‘By the deep nine! by the deep nine!’
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And ye, who are voyaging o'er life's tempestuous sea!
Let judgment be your compass, your lead let prudence be;
Should passion's current take you towards a wrecking reef,
Be wise to put about soon as prudence sounds relief:—
‘By the deep nine! by the deep nine!’
Let judgment be your compass, your lead let prudence be;
Should passion's current take you towards a wrecking reef,
Be wise to put about soon as prudence sounds relief:—
‘By the deep nine! by the deep nine!’
The gallant ship, the Union, our brave old fathers built;
Her keel was laid in heart's-blood of willing martyrs spilt!
Then beware! ye who sail her along the flood of time,
Keep her bearings, keep her soundings,—she'll float to the chime:—
‘By the deep nine! by the deep nine!’
Her keel was laid in heart's-blood of willing martyrs spilt!
Then beware! ye who sail her along the flood of time,
Keep her bearings, keep her soundings,—she'll float to the chime:—
‘By the deep nine! by the deep nine!’
186
COLUMBIA RULES THE SEA.
The pennon flutters in the breeze,
The anchor comes a-peak;
Let fall!—sheet home!—the briny foam
And ocean's waste we seek.
The booming gun speaks our adieu;
Fast fades our native shore;—
Columbia free shall rule the sea,
Britannia ruled of yore!
The anchor comes a-peak;
Let fall!—sheet home!—the briny foam
And ocean's waste we seek.
The booming gun speaks our adieu;
Fast fades our native shore;—
Columbia free shall rule the sea,
Britannia ruled of yore!
We go the tempest's wrath to dare—
The billows' maddened play;
Now climbing high against the sky,
Now rolling low away!
While Yankee oak bears Yankee hearts
Courageous to the core,
Columbia free shall rule the sea
Britannia ruled of yore.
The billows' maddened play;
Now climbing high against the sky,
Now rolling low away!
While Yankee oak bears Yankee hearts
Courageous to the core,
Columbia free shall rule the sea
Britannia ruled of yore.
We'll bear her flag around the world
In thunder and in flame;
From pole to pole sublimely roll
The music of her name.
The winds shall pipe her peans loud,
The billows chorus roar;—
Columbia free shall rule the sea
Britannia ruled of yore.
In thunder and in flame;
From pole to pole sublimely roll
The music of her name.
187
The billows chorus roar;—
Columbia free shall rule the sea
Britannia ruled of yore.
Is there a haughty foe on earth
Would treat her with disdain?—
'T were better far that nation were
Whelmed in the mighty main!
Should War her demon dogs unchain,
Or Peace her plenty pour,
Columbia free shall rule the sea
Britannia ruled of yore.
Would treat her with disdain?—
'T were better far that nation were
Whelmed in the mighty main!
Should War her demon dogs unchain,
Or Peace her plenty pour,
Columbia free shall rule the sea
Britannia ruled of yore.
188
THE OLD FARMER'S ELEGY.
On a green, grassy knoll by the banks of the brook,
That so long and so often has watered his flock,
The old farmer rests in his long and last sleep,
While the waters a low, lapsing lullaby keep.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
That so long and so often has watered his flock,
The old farmer rests in his long and last sleep,
While the waters a low, lapsing lullaby keep.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
The blue-bird sings sweet on the gay maple bough,—
Its warbling oft cheered him while holding the plough;
And the robins above him hop light on the mold,
For he fed them with crumbs when the season was cold.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
Its warbling oft cheered him while holding the plough;
And the robins above him hop light on the mold,
For he fed them with crumbs when the season was cold.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
Yon tree, that with fragrance is filling the air,
So rich with its blossoms, so thrifty and fair,
By his own hand was planted, and well did he say
It would live when its planter had mouldered away!
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
So rich with its blossoms, so thrifty and fair,
By his own hand was planted, and well did he say
It would live when its planter had mouldered away!
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
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There 's the well that he dug, with its waters so cold,
With its wet, dripping bucket, so mossy and old,
No more from its depths by the patriarch drawn,
For ‘the pitcher is broken,’—the old man is gone!
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
With its wet, dripping bucket, so mossy and old,
No more from its depths by the patriarch drawn,
For ‘the pitcher is broken,’—the old man is gone!
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
And the seat where he sat by his own cottage door,
In the still summer eves, when his labors were o'er,
With his eye on the moon, and his pipe in his hand,
Dispensing his truths like a sage of the land.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
In the still summer eves, when his labors were o'er,
With his eye on the moon, and his pipe in his hand,
Dispensing his truths like a sage of the land.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
'T was a gloom-giving day when the old farmer died!
The stout-hearted mourned,—the affectionate cried;
And the prayers of the just for his rest did ascend,
For they all lost a BROTHER, a MAN, and a FRIEND.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
The stout-hearted mourned,—the affectionate cried;
And the prayers of the just for his rest did ascend,
For they all lost a BROTHER, a MAN, and a FRIEND.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
For upright and honest the old farmer was;
His God he revered,—he respected the laws;
Tho' fameless he lived, he has gone where his worth
Will outshine like pure gold all the dross of this earth.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
His God he revered,—he respected the laws;
Tho' fameless he lived, he has gone where his worth
Will outshine like pure gold all the dross of this earth.
He has ploughed his last furrow,—has reaped his last grain,
No morn shall awake him to labor again.
190
JULY FOURTH.
This is the morn—the glorious morn
When Freedom nerved for strife;
Put to her lips her clarion horn
And woke a land to life!
Then let the bell its music swell,—
The gun its thunder chime!
This day of days our children's praise
Shall have to latest time.
When Freedom nerved for strife;
Put to her lips her clarion horn
And woke a land to life!
Then let the bell its music swell,—
The gun its thunder chime!
This day of days our children's praise
Shall have to latest time.
This is the morn—the glorious morn
Broke scepter and the rod;
When freemen faced a tyrant's scorn
And thanked Almighty God!
Then let the bell, &c.
Broke scepter and the rod;
When freemen faced a tyrant's scorn
And thanked Almighty God!
Then let the bell, &c.
This is the morn—the glorious morn
Dispelled Oppression's night;
When Liberty, the heaven-born,
Baptized us into light.
Then let the bell, &c.
Dispelled Oppression's night;
When Liberty, the heaven-born,
Baptized us into light.
Then let the bell, &c.
191
This is the day—the blessed day
That first our flag unfurled;
Spread forth its starry folds to play,—
The wonder of the world.
Then let the bell, &c.
That first our flag unfurled;
Spread forth its starry folds to play,—
The wonder of the world.
Then let the bell, &c.
This is the day—the blessed day
When every patriot should
Think on his sires' victorious way
Thro' terrors, fire, and blood!
Then let the bell, &c.
When every patriot should
Think on his sires' victorious way
Thro' terrors, fire, and blood!
Then let the bell, &c.
This is the day—the blessed day
Whose memories shall burn
Bright on my heart, till shrouding clay
Shall ‘dust to dust’ return!
Then let the bell its music swell—
The gun its thunder chime!
This day of days our children's praise
Shall have to latest time.
Whose memories shall burn
Bright on my heart, till shrouding clay
Shall ‘dust to dust’ return!
Then let the bell its music swell—
The gun its thunder chime!
This day of days our children's praise
Shall have to latest time.
192
THE OLD POD-AUGER DAYS.
I saw an aged man at work—
He turned an auger round;
And ever and anon he 'd pause,
And meditate profound.
Good morning, friend, quoth I to him,—
Art thinking when to raise?
O, no! said he, I'm thinking on
The old ‘pod-auger days.’
He turned an auger round;
And ever and anon he 'd pause,
And meditate profound.
Good morning, friend, quoth I to him,—
Art thinking when to raise?
O, no! said he, I'm thinking on
The old ‘pod-auger days.’
True, by the hardest then we wrought,
With little extra aid;
But honor's were the things we bought,
And honor's those we made.
But now invention stalks abroad,
Deception dogs her ways;
Things different are from what they were
In old ‘pod-auger days.’
With little extra aid;
But honor's were the things we bought,
And honor's those we made.
But now invention stalks abroad,
Deception dogs her ways;
Things different are from what they were
In old ‘pod-auger days.’
Then homely was the fare we had,
And homespun what we wore;
Then scarce a niggard pulled the string
Inside his cabin door.
Then humbugs did n't fly so thick
As half the world to haze;
That sort of bug was scarcely known
In old ‘pod-auger days.’
And homespun what we wore;
Then scarce a niggard pulled the string
Inside his cabin door.
193
As half the world to haze;
That sort of bug was scarcely known
In old ‘pod-auger days.’
Then men were strong, and woman fair
Was hearty as the doe:
Then few so dreadful ‘feeble’ were,
They could n't knit and sew;
Then girls could sing, and they could work,
And thrum gridiron lays;
That sort of music took the palm
In old ‘pod-auger days.’
Was hearty as the doe:
Then few so dreadful ‘feeble’ were,
They could n't knit and sew;
Then girls could sing, and they could work,
And thrum gridiron lays;
That sort of music took the palm
In old ‘pod-auger days.’
Then men were patriots—rare, indeed,
An Arnold or a Burr;
They loved their country, and in turn
Were loved and blessed by her.
Then Franklin, Sherman, Rittenhouse
Earned well the nation's praise;
We 've not the Congress that we had
In old ‘pod-auger days.’
An Arnold or a Burr;
They loved their country, and in turn
Were loved and blessed by her.
Then Franklin, Sherman, Rittenhouse
Earned well the nation's praise;
We 've not the Congress that we had
In old ‘pod-auger days.’
Then, ‘slow and certain’ was the word;
Now, ‘dei'l the hindmost take;’
Then buyers rattled down the tin;
Now, words must payment make;
Then, murder-doing villians soon
Were decked in hempen bays;
We did n't murder in our sleep,
In old ‘pod-auger days.’
Now, ‘dei'l the hindmost take;’
Then buyers rattled down the tin;
Now, words must payment make;
Then, murder-doing villians soon
Were decked in hempen bays;
We did n't murder in our sleep,
In old ‘pod-auger days.’
194
So wags the world;—'t is well enough,
If Wisdom went by steam;
But in my day she used to drive
A plain old-fashioned team;
And Justice with her bandage off
Can now see choice in ways;
She used to sit blind-fold and stern
In old ‘pod-auger days.’
If Wisdom went by steam;
But in my day she used to drive
A plain old-fashioned team;
And Justice with her bandage off
Can now see choice in ways;
She used to sit blind-fold and stern
In old ‘pod-auger days.’
195
‘HOE OUT YOUR ROW.’
One lazy day a farmer's boy
Was hoeing out the corn,
And moodily had listened long
To hear the dinner horn.
The welcome blast was heard at last,
And down he dropt his hoe;
But goodman shouted in his ear,
Hoe out your row!—O,
Hoe out your row!
Was hoeing out the corn,
And moodily had listened long
To hear the dinner horn.
The welcome blast was heard at last,
And down he dropt his hoe;
But goodman shouted in his ear,
Hoe out your row!—O,
Hoe out your row!
Altho' a ‘hard one’ was the row,
To use a ploughman phrase,
And the lad, as sailors have it,
Beginning well to ‘haze,’—
‘I can,’ said he, and manfully
He seized again his hoe;
And goodman smiled to see the boy
Hoe out his row,—O,
Hoe out his row.
To use a ploughman phrase,
And the lad, as sailors have it,
Beginning well to ‘haze,’—
‘I can,’ said he, and manfully
He seized again his hoe;
And goodman smiled to see the boy
Hoe out his row,—O,
Hoe out his row.
196
The lad the text remembered long,
And proved the moral well,
That perseverance to the end
At last will nobly tell.
Take courage, man! resolve you can,
And strike a vig'rous blow,
In life's great field of varied toil
Hoe out your row,—O,
Hoe out your row.
And proved the moral well,
That perseverance to the end
At last will nobly tell.
Take courage, man! resolve you can,
And strike a vig'rous blow,
In life's great field of varied toil
Hoe out your row,—O,
Hoe out your row.
197
WASHING BY THE BROOK.
Where the alders girt a grassy
Leaf-embowered nook,
There I spied a cottage lassie
Washing by the brook.
Leaf-embowered nook,
There I spied a cottage lassie
Washing by the brook.
Bright the wavelets glanced beside her,
Brighter was the look
That she gave to him who spied her
Washing by the brook.
Brighter was the look
That she gave to him who spied her
Washing by the brook.
Sweet the songs of birds around her,—
Songs from Nature's book;
Sweeter hers to him who found her
Washing by the brook.
Songs from Nature's book;
Sweeter hers to him who found her
Washing by the brook.
Heaven bless her! heaven watch her!
Pride may overlook
But for graces never match her,
Washing by the brook.
Pride may overlook
But for graces never match her,
Washing by the brook.
198
‘WHERE GENTLE HOUS-A-TONIC THREADS.’
Where gentle Hous-a-ton-ic threads
Its pathway to the sea,
It mirrors many a flow'ret sweet
And many a noble tree.
The flowers are the maidens fair,
Old Berkshire's boast and pride;
And manhood is the lofty tree
Fast by the water side.
Its pathway to the sea,
It mirrors many a flow'ret sweet
And many a noble tree.
The flowers are the maidens fair,
Old Berkshire's boast and pride;
And manhood is the lofty tree
Fast by the water side.
High tower the hills above the vale
Where Housatonic flows;
There free the breeze of summer plays,
And pure are winter's snows.
But freer is the honest hand
That tills the soil below;
And purer is the maiden there
Than the unsullied snow.
Where Housatonic flows;
There free the breeze of summer plays,
And pure are winter's snows.
But freer is the honest hand
That tills the soil below;
And purer is the maiden there
Than the unsullied snow.
Firm stand Tigh-con-ic's tablets high
O'er Housatonic's plain,
And Time upon their solid base
Shall try his scythe in vain.
But firmer is the spirit bold
That Berkshire's freemen show;
And fame shall sing of Berkshire's fair
While time and water flow.
O'er Housatonic's plain,
And Time upon their solid base
Shall try his scythe in vain.
But firmer is the spirit bold
That Berkshire's freemen show;
And fame shall sing of Berkshire's fair
While time and water flow.
199
ASHUELOT RIVER.
Glide on, Ash-u-e-lot, with music to hail
And join the bright stream of my own native vale!
I list to thy murmurs, I hear thee deplore
The nation that named thee; they see thee no more.
And join the bright stream of my own native vale!
I list to thy murmurs, I hear thee deplore
The nation that named thee; they see thee no more.
How sweet in the autumn to stray by thy side,
Beneath the smooth beeches that drink of thy tide!
To hear the wind sigh for the wild sylvan chief,
And faint, dreamy knell of the slow-falling leaf!
Beneath the smooth beeches that drink of thy tide!
To hear the wind sigh for the wild sylvan chief,
And faint, dreamy knell of the slow-falling leaf!
Here came the dark maiden, in days that are flown,
When painted for battle her warrior had gone,—
To muse o'er thy waters, to hear in their flow
The accents of pleasure, or sobbings of woe.
When painted for battle her warrior had gone,—
To muse o'er thy waters, to hear in their flow
The accents of pleasure, or sobbings of woe.
When bright shone the moon,and the bough scarcely stir'd,
And th' wolf's lonely howl from Monadnock was heard,
She saw in thy mantle of mist, chill and gray,
The ghost of her warrior rise wreathing away.
And th' wolf's lonely howl from Monadnock was heard,
She saw in thy mantle of mist, chill and gray,
The ghost of her warrior rise wreathing away.
200
Still plays in the breeze, as of yore, thy light wave,
But on thy green banks all unknown is her grave;
The ploughboy turns, whistling, some mouldering bone,—
Here still flow thy waters,—her grave is unknown.
But on thy green banks all unknown is her grave;
The ploughboy turns, whistling, some mouldering bone,—
Here still flow thy waters,—her grave is unknown.
Glide on, Ashuelot, with music to hail
And swell the bright flood of my own native vale;
I list to thy murmurs, I hear thee deplore
The nation that loved thee; they see thee no more.
And swell the bright flood of my own native vale;
I list to thy murmurs, I hear thee deplore
The nation that loved thee; they see thee no more.
201
LEYDEN GLEN.
When first thro' lonely Leyden Glen
I went the wild surveying,
Its channel'd rocks, its sylvan glooms,
Its brawling torrent playing;
I there an aged man espied,
Beneath a hemlock sitting,
His gaze was on the bubbles bright
That round its roots were flitting.
I went the wild surveying,
Its channel'd rocks, its sylvan glooms,
Its brawling torrent playing;
I there an aged man espied,
Beneath a hemlock sitting,
His gaze was on the bubbles bright
That round its roots were flitting.
‘Beneath this tree,’ the old man said,
‘A maiden and her lover
Once met and linked the tender vows
That death alone may sever.
They saw the future thro' the eye
Of hope's enchanting vision;
And all the world before them lay
A beauteous field elysian.
‘A maiden and her lover
Once met and linked the tender vows
That death alone may sever.
They saw the future thro' the eye
Of hope's enchanting vision;
And all the world before them lay
A beauteous field elysian.
‘Tho’ we on pleasures past may look,
Or backward turn with sorrow,
What know we, creatures of to day,
About the future's morrow?
The maid in all her purity
Went, years ago, to glory;
I yet am here, but youth and love
Have with her fled before me.’
Or backward turn with sorrow,
What know we, creatures of to day,
About the future's morrow?
The maid in all her purity
Went, years ago, to glory;
I yet am here, but youth and love
Have with her fled before me.’
202
SONG.
‘Where Liberty dwells, there is my country.’—
Franklin.
Franklin.
From where Penobscot's flood reflects
The morning's ruddy beams,
To lone Itaska lake that feeds
The infant King of Streams,—
Vast region! from whose ample midst
Niagara's anthem swells:
Here is the home of Liberty,
And here her spirit dwells.
The morning's ruddy beams,
To lone Itaska lake that feeds
The infant King of Streams,—
Vast region! from whose ample midst
Niagara's anthem swells:
Here is the home of Liberty,
And here her spirit dwells.
A voice is in each nameless brook,
Each river of our land;
Amidst the mountains, Titan piled,
That loom cloud-capt and grand;
The breeze that rolls the prairie wave,
This voiceful hymning tells:
Here is the home of Liberty,
And here her spirit dwells.
Each river of our land;
Amidst the mountains, Titan piled,
That loom cloud-capt and grand;
The breeze that rolls the prairie wave,
This voiceful hymning tells:
Here is the home of Liberty,
And here her spirit dwells.
Within the shieling on the hill,
The hamlet in the vale;
Within the mart whence commerce sets
The snowy, seaward sail;
Within our hearts, my countrymen,
A conscious feeling tells:
Here is the home of Liberty,
And here her spirit dwells.
The hamlet in the vale;
Within the mart whence commerce sets
The snowy, seaward sail;
Within our hearts, my countrymen,
A conscious feeling tells:
Here is the home of Liberty,
And here her spirit dwells.
203
LINES ADDRESSED TO ‘OLD KNICK.’
Not to the celebrated devil,
Not Nick, thou big, hope-blasting weevil,
Embodying all we know of evil;—
No! Goodness bless me!
Thou 'lt have to use me far more civil,
Ere I address thee.
Not Nick, thou big, hope-blasting weevil,
Embodying all we know of evil;—
No! Goodness bless me!
Thou 'lt have to use me far more civil,
Ere I address thee.
But thou who dwell'st in Gotham city,
The MAN, warm-hearted, wise, and witty,
Thou who first read my rustic ditty,
First called me BARD!
(The holy truth will sure acquit thee
In that regard.)
The MAN, warm-hearted, wise, and witty,
Thou who first read my rustic ditty,
First called me BARD!
(The holy truth will sure acquit thee
In that regard.)
Tho' not thy namesake's kin or pet,
There 's something weird about you, yet;
What Editor before could set
So rich a ‘Table?’
Where could mere human body get
The wherewith-able?
There 's something weird about you, yet;
What Editor before could set
So rich a ‘Table?’
Where could mere human body get
The wherewith-able?
204
Oh, had I but thy facile pen!
Thy fancy to direct it!—then
I 'd hope to win from fellow men
A lofty name;
And leave life's mediocral fen
For ‘braes o' fame!’
Thy fancy to direct it!—then
I 'd hope to win from fellow men
A lofty name;
And leave life's mediocral fen
For ‘braes o' fame!’
I'm coming out an author, now,
In book yclept ‘The Harp and Plow.’
Hopes, fears; fears, hopes; around my brow,
Weeds twine, or bays:
But, hit or miss, I'll make my bow
One of these days.
In book yclept ‘The Harp and Plow.’
Hopes, fears; fears, hopes; around my brow,
Weeds twine, or bays:
But, hit or miss, I'll make my bow
One of these days.
My book! with trembling I shall show it,
Lest you annihilate the poet;
But should you any praise bestow it,
Content I am,
Tho' every other critic blow it
To Rotterd—m.
Lest you annihilate the poet;
But should you any praise bestow it,
Content I am,
Tho' every other critic blow it
To Rotterd—m.
But by thy worth, and fancy fine,
By that small share which may be mine,
By all the favors of the Nine,
In store, or given,
I wish thee, Clark, for thee and thine,
The smiles of Heaven.
By that small share which may be mine,
By all the favors of the Nine,
In store, or given,
I wish thee, Clark, for thee and thine,
The smiles of Heaven.
L. Gaylord Clark, Esq., editor of the venerable and valuable Knickerbocker Magazine;—both himself and Maga familiarly and facetiously styled at times by their thousand admirers, ‘Knick’ or ‘Old Knick.’ Mr. Clark first bestowed upon the author the nom de plume ‘Peasant-Bard.’—See Knickerbocker Mag. vol. xxxi, page 183.
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