 | The battle of Niagara |  |
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PERRY's VICTORY.
COLUMBIA appear! To thy mountains ascend,
And pour thy bold hymn to the winds and the woods,
Columbia appear!—O'er thy tempest-harp bend,
And far, to the nations, its trumpet song send:
Let thy cliff echoes wake, with their sun-nourished broods,
And chant to the desert, the skies, and the floods;
And bid them remember
The tenth of September,
When our eagle came down from her home in the sky,
And the souls of our ancients were marshalled on high.
And pour thy bold hymn to the winds and the woods,
Columbia appear!—O'er thy tempest-harp bend,
And far, to the nations, its trumpet song send:
Let thy cliff echoes wake, with their sun-nourished broods,
And chant to the desert, the skies, and the floods;
And bid them remember
The tenth of September,
When our eagle came down from her home in the sky,
And the souls of our ancients were marshalled on high.
Columbia appear!—let thy warriors behold,
Their flag—like a firmament bend o'er thy head—
The wide—rainbow-flag—with its star-clustered fold!
Let the knell of dark Battle, beneath it, be tolled;
While the anthem of peace shall be pealed for the dead,
And the rude waters heave, on whose bosom they bled:
O they will remember
The tenth of September,
When their souls were let loose in a tempest of flame,
And wide Erie shook at the trumpet of Fame!
Their flag—like a firmament bend o'er thy head—
The wide—rainbow-flag—with its star-clustered fold!
Let the knell of dark Battle, beneath it, be tolled;
While the anthem of peace shall be pealed for the dead,
And the rude waters heave, on whose bosom they bled:
O they will remember
The tenth of September,
When their souls were let loose in a tempest of flame,
And wide Erie shook at the trumpet of Fame!
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Columbia appear!—Let thy cloud-minstrels wake,
As they march on the storm—all the grandeur of song,
'Till the far mountains nod, and the motionless lake
Shall be mantled in froth—and its monarch shall quake
On his green, oozy throne, as their harping comes strong,
With the chime of the winds that are bursting along;
For he will remember
The tenth of September,
When he saw his dominions all covered with foam;
And heard the loud war in his echoless home.
As they march on the storm—all the grandeur of song,
'Till the far mountains nod, and the motionless lake
Shall be mantled in froth—and its monarch shall quake
On his green, oozy throne, as their harping comes strong,
With the chime of the winds that are bursting along;
For he will remember
The tenth of September,
When he saw his dominions all covered with foam;
And heard the loud war in his echoless home.
Columbia appear!—Be thine olive displayed!
O cheer, with thy smile, all the land and the tide!
Be the anthem we hear, not the song that was made,
When the victims of slaughter stood forth, all arrayed
In blood-dripping garments—and shouted—and died:
But, let us remember
The tenth of September,
When the dark waves of Erie were brightened to day;
And the flames of the battle were quenched in their spray.
O cheer, with thy smile, all the land and the tide!
Be the anthem we hear, not the song that was made,
When the victims of slaughter stood forth, all arrayed
In blood-dripping garments—and shouted—and died:
But, let us remember
The tenth of September,
When the dark waves of Erie were brightened to day;
And the flames of the battle were quenched in their spray.
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HYMN,
(Sung at the late ordination of Mr. Pierpont, in Boston. )
O, THOU—the Everlasting!—Thou,
The only God!—Jehovah!—we,
With all thy throned archangels, bow
In hymning and in prayer to thee!
The only God!—Jehovah!—we,
With all thy throned archangels, bow
In hymning and in prayer to thee!
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Around thy cloud-encompassed throne,
Where unseen harps for ever ring;
Where everlasting trumps are blown;
And Kings—and Bards—and Prophets sing—
Where unseen harps for ever ring;
Where everlasting trumps are blown;
And Kings—and Bards—and Prophets sing—
We kneel—O, God!—with them that were
Thy chosen ones on earth:—we bow,
With crowned multitudes, in prayer,
And ask thy blessing—Father, now.
Thy chosen ones on earth:—we bow,
With crowned multitudes, in prayer,
And ask thy blessing—Father, now.
On this, thy flock, assembled here,
And him that thou hast called to thee,
Commissioned, Father!—to appear,
In thy consuming ministry:
And him that thou hast called to thee,
Commissioned, Father!—to appear,
In thy consuming ministry:
O, Thou!—to whom thy people came,
In ancient time—with songs and prayers:
Whose servant saw thee, wrapped in flame—
O be our God, as thou art theirs!
In ancient time—with songs and prayers:
Whose servant saw thee, wrapped in flame—
O be our God, as thou art theirs!
I can offer no other apology for having ventured upon this species of composition—than the true one. It is this—indignation at the miserable, trashy—not to say blasphemous, versifications of scripture abroad, purporting to be Sacred Songs—and Divine Hymns—alike destitute of magnificence and sublimity—of the royal magnificence of Solomon—and the great simplicity of Isaiah—having nothing of the monarch, less of the prophet —and still less of the bard to recommend them, in their English dress.
The attempt was a bold one—and I feel that I have failed—for I am not satisfied with what I have done:— yet as I could not—if I would—produce any thing worse than I have seen, and as I might produce something better, I have made the attempt. May it lead others— with a better knack at versifying—to a proper veneration for the noble simplicity—and richness—the unadulterated and vast sublimity of scripture.
TO ---.
'TIS true—I have not known thee long;
Yet I have worshipped—blamed—and loved thee;
For thou'rt so like a thing of song,
That I have dreamt of—ardent—young—
Changing with every thing that moved thee:
That I have dwelt upon thine eye,
So happy—clear—and mild—and blue,
'Till I have seen the loveliest sky!
Come down in a dissolving dye,
And drop with heaven—and light—and dew!
Yet I have worshipped—blamed—and loved thee;
For thou'rt so like a thing of song,
That I have dreamt of—ardent—young—
Changing with every thing that moved thee:
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So happy—clear—and mild—and blue,
'Till I have seen the loveliest sky!
Come down in a dissolving dye,
And drop with heaven—and light—and dew!
At night I've prayed 'till I have wept,
To think what sorrows might beset thee;
While visions to my bosom crept,
'Till I forgot to breathe—and slept—
But—even in sleep—could not forget thee:
Again would come thy soft blue eye,
Melting again in light and love;
Again thy lip would change its dye,
My soul would leave my lip—and I,
Would wander in my dreams above:
Then heart—to heart—I'd meet thee, where,
A pure, transparent heaven was swelling—
I'd feel the floating of thy hair
Upon my breast—and kneel in prayer
With thee—with thee!—in thy blue dwelling.
To think what sorrows might beset thee;
While visions to my bosom crept,
'Till I forgot to breathe—and slept—
But—even in sleep—could not forget thee:
Again would come thy soft blue eye,
Melting again in light and love;
Again thy lip would change its dye,
My soul would leave my lip—and I,
Would wander in my dreams above:
Then heart—to heart—I'd meet thee, where,
A pure, transparent heaven was swelling—
I'd feel the floating of thy hair
Upon my breast—and kneel in prayer
With thee—with thee!—in thy blue dwelling.
But then—oh! we should never wake,
When dreams like these sing to our heart—
Nor ever, by one murmur, break
The charm that binds their wing—they take
Such long—long farewells when they part;
Bright one, adieu!—no hour is near,
When I may pour my thoughts to thee—
Thou'lt be my soul enchantment dear,
Yet will thou never know it here—
But some fresh day—some summer year,
In yon blue heaven, we'll both appear—
Just like my dreams—as pure—as free.
When dreams like these sing to our heart—
Nor ever, by one murmur, break
The charm that binds their wing—they take
Such long—long farewells when they part;
Bright one, adieu!—no hour is near,
When I may pour my thoughts to thee—
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Yet will thou never know it here—
But some fresh day—some summer year,
In yon blue heaven, we'll both appear—
Just like my dreams—as pure—as free.
[_]
The following lines were hastily—very hastily written, on seeing the celebrated Mr. Wood touch off a likeness—as usual—in the twinkling of an eye.
To the Genius of Painting.
YOUNG wanton of our sunniest dreaming!Dear child of heaven!
With lighted eye—and loose-hair streaming,
Like meteors o'er the brow of even!
Who comest—strangely fair,
And sittest on the air,
With pencil dripping light!—and eye
Intent on nature's imagery,
To catch her fleetest, loveliest beaming.
O stay thy fairy mimickry—
Suspend thy life-enkindling power—
One moment—wanton!—while I try
To show thee to the world, as I
Have seen thee in my lonely hour:
O, grant my prayer!
Withhold thy hand awhile—
Thy wondrous hand—and smile—
Bind up thy streaming hair,
That I may catch thee, child of heaven!
And show thee—as to me thou'rt given.
See ye—'tis there!—how blithsomely it goes—
With every feather trembling—round it flows,
An air-spun mantle, coloured with the rose.
Suspend thy life-enkindling power—
One moment—wanton!—while I try
To show thee to the world, as I
Have seen thee in my lonely hour:
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Withhold thy hand awhile—
Thy wondrous hand—and smile—
Bind up thy streaming hair,
That I may catch thee, child of heaven!
And show thee—as to me thou'rt given.
See ye—'tis there!—how blithsomely it goes—
With every feather trembling—round it flows,
An air-spun mantle, coloured with the rose.
That is the genius!—see!
How gloriously, wild and free—
All light, and fire, and energy!
How carelessly he treads the air,
Collecting hues and sun-beams there—
And flashing—sprinkling—all about—
The canvass that's before him—
Ten thousand tints of nameless hue—
Of mingling sunshine—tender blue—
The gushing of the happy heart,
The lustre of the kindling eye—
When lifted to the evening sky—
Now pausing—dwelling—touching out
The secret meaning of each part—
The faint and tearful tenderness—
The thought that nothing can express—
O, who would not adore him!
How gloriously, wild and free—
All light, and fire, and energy!
How carelessly he treads the air,
Collecting hues and sun-beams there—
And flashing—sprinkling—all about—
The canvass that's before him—
Ten thousand tints of nameless hue—
Of mingling sunshine—tender blue—
The gushing of the happy heart,
The lustre of the kindling eye—
When lifted to the evening sky—
Now pausing—dwelling—touching out
The secret meaning of each part—
The faint and tearful tenderness—
The thought that nothing can express—
O, who would not adore him!
'Tis done—the mingling tints grow warm—
Within the wash appears a form,
Peering like Iris thro' the storm;—
The lightning—that he caught but now
From yonder cloud—beneath a brow,
Of loveliness and roguery,
Is flashing fast and wickedly.
You've “seen it!”—hey?—you “know that face?”—
“The young coquette!”—all light and grace:
'Tis she indeed—and now, the tint
That on his fire-tipped pencil dwelt—
A rose-bud's heart that seemed to melt—
Is changed into a lip—and now the dew,
That he just pilfered from a flower—
Yet freshly weeping from a shower,
Is sprinkled o'er its pulpy red—
And now —
[OMITTED]
My conscience! what a chase I'm led
This painting—sure—the devil's in't.
Within the wash appears a form,
Peering like Iris thro' the storm;—
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From yonder cloud—beneath a brow,
Of loveliness and roguery,
Is flashing fast and wickedly.
You've “seen it!”—hey?—you “know that face?”—
“The young coquette!”—all light and grace:
'Tis she indeed—and now, the tint
That on his fire-tipped pencil dwelt—
A rose-bud's heart that seemed to melt—
Is changed into a lip—and now the dew,
That he just pilfered from a flower—
Yet freshly weeping from a shower,
Is sprinkled o'er its pulpy red—
And now —
[OMITTED]
My conscience! what a chase I'm led
This painting—sure—the devil's in't.
SONG.
I'VE loved to hear the war-horn's cry,
And panted at the drum's deep roll;
And held my breath, when—flaming high—
I've seen our starry banners fly,
As challenging the haughty sky,
They stirred the battle in my soul:
For I was so adventurous then,
I burnt to be the slave—of men.
And panted at the drum's deep roll;
And held my breath, when—flaming high—
I've seen our starry banners fly,
As challenging the haughty sky,
They stirred the battle in my soul:
For I was so adventurous then,
I burnt to be the slave—of men.
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I've looked upon the morning light,
Flushing its standard far and free;
And seen it struggle with the night,
And loved it, for it told of fight;
And every flash that triumph'd bright,
Seemed glance of glorious Liberty!
For I was fanciful and wild,
As youthful Freedom's freest child.
Flushing its standard far and free;
And seen it struggle with the night,
And loved it, for it told of fight;
And every flash that triumph'd bright,
Seemed glance of glorious Liberty!
For I was fanciful and wild,
As youthful Freedom's freest child.
I've sailed upon the dark-blue deep:
I've shouted to the eaglet soaring;
And hung me from a rocking steep,
When all but spirits were asleep;
And oh, my very soul would leap!
To hear its gallant waters roaring;
For every sound that told of life,
To me, was but the voice of strife.
I've shouted to the eaglet soaring;
And hung me from a rocking steep,
When all but spirits were asleep;
And oh, my very soul would leap!
To hear its gallant waters roaring;
For every sound that told of life,
To me, was but the voice of strife.
But, I am strangely altered now—
I love no more the bugle's voice—
The rushing wave—the plunging prow—
The mountain's tempest-clouded brow—
The daring—the exulting flow
Of all that made me once rejoice—
I've learnt to talk of tears—and sighs—
And locks of gold—and dying eyes!
I love no more the bugle's voice—
The rushing wave—the plunging prow—
The mountain's tempest-clouded brow—
The daring—the exulting flow
Of all that made me once rejoice—
I've learnt to talk of tears—and sighs—
And locks of gold—and dying eyes!
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The Lyre of the Winds.
HARK! 'tis the harp's wild minstrel tone,Convulsive—quivering—strange and lone:
Now bursting on the ear—now gone—
Now piping 'mid the breeze, as tho' it told
That some bright spirit had to heaven flown,
And angel-trumpets had its welcome blown!
And now, so full of pomp—so deep—so bold,
So strong—so steady were its numbers roll'd,
As if Prediction smote its trembling chords,
And with the weight of prophecy oppressed them;
Then such rich tones concealed her fearful words,
As if dear Pity had herself expressed them:
So indistinct these murmurs were,
They seemed, sometimes, still less than air;
Sometimes—as if the shrinking strings
Were swept by Phrensy's burning wings—
Now with an unknown spirit speaking,
Now ringing fierce and sharp! now low,
With startling nearness, pealing now,
Now—distant—faint—and sad—and slow—
Like Feeling's murmurs, when her heart is breaking:
Or sounds we dream of, when our souls are waking.
Now like the flute, whose trancing note,
In visions, o'er our memories float,
As all along the trembling air
It seems to send its spirit there;
And now—the pipe's deep, drowsy, breath,
Complaining like the march of death—
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Echoing along the clear blue sky!
And now—a lightly shouting strain,
As if, across the slumbering main,
Green Erin's Bards—a shadowy train—
Were tuning all their harps again:
And now—the ardent—quivering lyre
Flashing and chiming higher—higher—
And now the sea-nymph's winding shell,
Stealing like sighs through ocean cell—
From where the minstrel mermaids dwell:
Now a silvery sob, as of elf-babe straying;
Now distant, yet clear, like fairy-steed neighing,
When it springs on the air with a spirited shake,
And is answered again from the hare-bell and brake;
And bright little warriors jump up—all awake!
When the cry of their bugles are heard for the strife,
And it gallops abroad full of laughter, and life;
When a diamond-edged scymetar swings from each side,
And their streamers sing clearly and sharp as they ride;
When Echo leans forward and mimicks the sound,
And Melody leaps to their helmet's fine ringing;
And the minstrels of fairy-land, prancing around,
On cymbal-hoofed chargers—are shouting and singing,
And the sweet, bustling sounds are all dancing and light,
As if spirits of harmony mingled in fight,
And clank'd their ton'd armour, and pour'd their sweet breath,
In a struggle for Melody's wind-woven wreath.
The reader is desired to spell warriour, terrour, and such words with an u, throughout the whole book. I am not particularly partial to Dr. Johnson, but I have sufficient respect to the best standard in our language, to follow it, even in trifles—and I did follow it, but the improvements of the printer have rendered this note necessary.
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