 | Whittier-land |  |
24
NARRATIVES
How Captain Riley and his crewWere on Sahara's desert threw.
How Rollins to obtain the cash
Wrote a dull history of trash.
O'er Bruce's travels I have pored,
Who the sources of the Nile explored.
Malcolm of Salem's narrative beside,
Who lost his ship's crew, unless belied.
How David Foss, poor man, was thrown
Upon an island all alone.
25
RELIGIOUS
The Bible towering o'er the rest,Of all the other books the best.
Old Father Baxter's pious call
To the unconverted all.
William Penn's laborious writing,
And the books 'gainst Christians fighting.
Some books of sound theology,
Robert Barclay's “Apology.”
Dyer's “Religion of the Shakers,”
Clarkson's also of the Quakers.
Many more books I have read through—
Bunyan's “Pilgrim's Progress” too.
A book concerning John's baptism,
Elias Smith's “Universalism.”
JOURNALS, LIVES, &c.
The Lives of Franklin and of Penn,Of Fox and Scott, all worthy men.
The Lives of Pope, of Young and Prior,
Of Milton, Addison, and Dyer;
Of Doddridge, Fénelon and Gray,
Armstrong, Akenside, and Gay.
The Life of Burroughs, too, I've read,
As big a rogue as e'er was made;
And Tufts, who, I will be civil,
Was worse than an incarnate devil.
—Written by John G. Whittier.
59
[I heard, methought, a murmur faint,]
“I heard, methought, a murmur faint,
Our River making its complaint;
Complaining in its liquid way,
Thus it said, or seemed to say:
Our River making its complaint;
Complaining in its liquid way,
Thus it said, or seemed to say:
60
“‘What's all this pother on my banks—
Squinting eyes and pacing shanks—
Peeping, running, left and right,
With compass and theodolite?
Squinting eyes and pacing shanks—
Peeping, running, left and right,
With compass and theodolite?
“‘Would they spoil this sacred place?
Blotch with paint its virgin face?
Do they—is it possible—
Do they dream of a hotel?
Blotch with paint its virgin face?
Do they—is it possible—
Do they dream of a hotel?
“‘Match against my moonlight keen
Their tallow dip and kerosene?
Match their low walls, plaster-spread,
With my blue dome overhead?
Their tallow dip and kerosene?
Match their low walls, plaster-spread,
With my blue dome overhead?
“‘Bring their hotel din and smell
Where my sweet winds blow so well,
And my birches dance and swing,
While my pines above them sing?
Where my sweet winds blow so well,
And my birches dance and swing,
While my pines above them sing?
“‘This puny mischief has its day,
But Nature's patient tasks alway
Begin where Art and Fashion stopped,
O'ergrow, and conquer, and adopt.
But Nature's patient tasks alway
Begin where Art and Fashion stopped,
O'ergrow, and conquer, and adopt.
“‘Still far as now my tide shall flow,
While age on age shall come and go,
Nor lack, through all the coming days,
The grateful song of human praise.’”
While age on age shall come and go,
Nor lack, through all the coming days,
The grateful song of human praise.’”
109
THE DIVISION
“Dogs take it! Still the girls are out,”
Said Muggins, bedward groping,
“'T is twelve o'clock, or thereabout,
And all the doors are open!
I'll lock the doors another night,
And give to none admission;
Better to be abed and tight
Than sober at Division!”
Said Muggins, bedward groping,
“'T is twelve o'clock, or thereabout,
And all the doors are open!
I'll lock the doors another night,
And give to none admission;
Better to be abed and tight
Than sober at Division!”
Next night at ten o'clock, or more
Or less, by Muggins's guessing,
He went to bolt the outside door,
And lo! the key was missing.
He muttered, scratched his head, and quick
He came to this decision:
“Here's something new in 'rithmetic,
Subtraction by Division!
Or less, by Muggins's guessing,
He went to bolt the outside door,
And lo! the key was missing.
He muttered, scratched his head, and quick
He came to this decision:
“Here's something new in 'rithmetic,
Subtraction by Division!
“And then,” said he, “it puzzles me,
I cannot get the right on't,
Why temperance talk and whiskey spree
Alike should make a night on 't.
D 'ye give it up?” In Muggins's voice
Was something like derision—
“It 's just because between the boys
And girls there 's no Division!”
I cannot get the right on't,
Why temperance talk and whiskey spree
Alike should make a night on 't.
D 'ye give it up?” In Muggins's voice
Was something like derision—
“It 's just because between the boys
And girls there 's no Division!”
111
HOW THEY CLIMBED CHOCORUA
Unto gallant deeds belong
Poet's rhyme and singer's song;
Nor for lack of pen or tongue
Should their praises be unsung,
Who climbed Chocorua!
Poet's rhyme and singer's song;
Nor for lack of pen or tongue
Should their praises be unsung,
Who climbed Chocorua!
O full long shall they remember
That wild nightfall of September,
When aweary of their tramp
They set up their canvas camp
In the hemlocks of Chocorua.
That wild nightfall of September,
When aweary of their tramp
They set up their canvas camp
In the hemlocks of Chocorua.
There the mountain winds were howling,
There the mountain bears were prowling,
And through rain showers falling drizzly
Glared upon them, grim and grisly,
The ghost of old Chocorua!
There the mountain bears were prowling,
And through rain showers falling drizzly
Glared upon them, grim and grisly,
The ghost of old Chocorua!
On the rocks with night mist wetted,
Keen his scalping knife he whetted,
For the ruddy firelight dancing
On the brown locks of Miss Lansing,
Tempted old Chocorua.
Keen his scalping knife he whetted,
For the ruddy firelight dancing
On the brown locks of Miss Lansing,
Tempted old Chocorua.
112
But he swore—(if ghosts can swear)—
“No, I cannot lift the hair
Of that pale face, tall and fair,
And for her sake, I will spare
The sleepers on Chocorua.”
“No, I cannot lift the hair
Of that pale face, tall and fair,
And for her sake, I will spare
The sleepers on Chocorua.”
Up they rose at blush of dawning,
Off they marched in gray of morning,
Following where the brothers Knox
Went like wild goats up the rocks
Of vast Chocorua.
Off they marched in gray of morning,
Following where the brothers Knox
Went like wild goats up the rocks
Of vast Chocorua.
Where the mountain shadow bald fell,
Merry faced went Addie Caldwell;
And Miss Ford, as gay of manner,
As if thrumming her piano,
Sang along Chocorua.
Merry faced went Addie Caldwell;
And Miss Ford, as gay of manner,
As if thrumming her piano,
Sang along Chocorua.
Light of foot, of kirtle scant,
Tripped brave Miss Sturtevant;
While as free as Sherman's bummer,
In the rations of foraged Plummer,
On thy slope, Chocorua!
Tripped brave Miss Sturtevant;
While as free as Sherman's bummer,
In the rations of foraged Plummer,
On thy slope, Chocorua!
Panting, straining up the rock ridge,
How they followed Tip and Stockbridge,
Till at last, all sore with bruises,
Up they stood like the nine Muses,
On thy crown, Chocorua!
How they followed Tip and Stockbridge,
Till at last, all sore with bruises,
Up they stood like the nine Muses,
On thy crown, Chocorua!
At their shout, so wild and rousing,
Every dun deer stopped his browsing,
And the black bear's small eyes glistened,
As with watery mouth he listened
To the climbers on Chocorua.
Every dun deer stopped his browsing,
And the black bear's small eyes glistened,
As with watery mouth he listened
To the climbers on Chocorua.
All the heavens were close above them,
But below were friends who loved them,—
And at thought of Bearcamp's worry,
Down they clambered in a hurry,—
Scurry down Chocorua.
But below were friends who loved them,—
And at thought of Bearcamp's worry,
Down they clambered in a hurry,—
Scurry down Chocorua.
Sore we miss the steaks and bear roast—
But withal for friends we care most;—
Give the brothers Knox three cheers,
Who to bring us back our dears,
Left bears on old Chocorua!
But withal for friends we care most;—
114
Who to bring us back our dears,
Left bears on old Chocorua!
116
THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF THE MAN IN THE BEAR-TRAP
Here I am at last a goner,
Held in hungry jaws like Jonah;
What the trap has left of me
Eaten by the bears will be.
So I make, on duty bent,
My last will and testament,
Giving to my Bearcamp friends
All my traps and odds and ends.
First, on Mr. Whittier,
That old bedstead I confer,
Whereupon, to vex his life,
Adam dreamed himself a wife.
I give Miss Ford the copyright
Of these verses I indite,
To be sung, when I am gone,
To the tune the cow died on.
On Miss Lansing I bestow
Tall Diana's hunting bow;
Where it is I cannot tell—
But if found 't will suit her well.
I bequeath to Mary Bailey
Yarn to knit a stocking daily.
To Lizzie Pickard from my hat
A ribbon for her yellow cat.
And I give to Mr. Pickard
That old tallow dip that flickered,
Flowed and sputtered more or less
Over Franklin's printing press.
I give Belle Hume a wing
Of the bird that would n't sing;
To Jettie for her dancing nights
Slippers dropped from Northern Lights.
And I give my very best
Beaver stove-pipe to Celeste—
Solely for her husband's wear,
On the day they 're made a pair.
If a tear for me is shed,
And Miss Larcom's eyes are red—
Give her for her prompt relief
My last pocket-handkerchief!
My cottage at the Shoals I give
To all who at the Bearcamp live—
Provided that a steamer plays
Down that river in dog-days—
Linking daily heated highlands
With the cool sea-scented islands—
With Tip her engineer, her skipper
Peter Hines, the old stage-whipper.
To Addie Caldwell, who has mended
My torn coat, and trousers rended,
I bequeath, in lack of payment,
All that 's left me of my raiment.
Having naught beside to spare,
To my good friend, Mrs. Ayer,
And to Mrs. Sturtevant,
My last lock of hair I grant.
I make Mr. Currier
Of this will executor;
And I leave the debts to be
Reckoned as his legal fee.
Held in hungry jaws like Jonah;
What the trap has left of me
Eaten by the bears will be.
So I make, on duty bent,
My last will and testament,
Giving to my Bearcamp friends
All my traps and odds and ends.
First, on Mr. Whittier,
That old bedstead I confer,
Whereupon, to vex his life,
Adam dreamed himself a wife.
I give Miss Ford the copyright
Of these verses I indite,
To be sung, when I am gone,
To the tune the cow died on.
On Miss Lansing I bestow
Tall Diana's hunting bow;
Where it is I cannot tell—
But if found 't will suit her well.
I bequeath to Mary Bailey
Yarn to knit a stocking daily.
To Lizzie Pickard from my hat
A ribbon for her yellow cat.
And I give to Mr. Pickard
That old tallow dip that flickered,
Flowed and sputtered more or less
Over Franklin's printing press.
I give Belle Hume a wing
Of the bird that would n't sing;
To Jettie for her dancing nights
Slippers dropped from Northern Lights.
And I give my very best
Beaver stove-pipe to Celeste—
Solely for her husband's wear,
On the day they 're made a pair.
If a tear for me is shed,
And Miss Larcom's eyes are red—
117
My last pocket-handkerchief!
My cottage at the Shoals I give
To all who at the Bearcamp live—
Provided that a steamer plays
Down that river in dog-days—
Linking daily heated highlands
With the cool sea-scented islands—
With Tip her engineer, her skipper
Peter Hines, the old stage-whipper.
To Addie Caldwell, who has mended
My torn coat, and trousers rended,
I bequeath, in lack of payment,
All that 's left me of my raiment.
Having naught beside to spare,
To my good friend, Mrs. Ayer,
And to Mrs. Sturtevant,
My last lock of hair I grant.
I make Mr. Currier
Of this will executor;
And I leave the debts to be
Reckoned as his legal fee.
And this pencil of a sick bard
I bequeath to Mr. Pickard;
Pledging him to write a very
Long and full obituary—
Showing by my sad example,
Useful life and virtues ample,
Wit and wisdom only tend
To bear-traps at one's latter end!
I bequeath to Mr. Pickard;
Pledging him to write a very
Long and full obituary—
Showing by my sad example,
Useful life and virtues ample,
Wit and wisdom only tend
To bear-traps at one's latter end!
119
[Alack and alas! that a brother of mine,]
“Alack and alas! that a brother of mine,
A bachelor sworn on celibacy's altar,
Should leave me to watch by the desolate shrine,
And stoop his own neck to the enemy's halter!
Oh the treason of Benedict Arnold was better
Than the scoffing at Love, and then sub rosa wooing;
This mocking at Beauty, yet wearing her fetter—
Alack and alas for such bachelor doing!
A bachelor sworn on celibacy's altar,
Should leave me to watch by the desolate shrine,
And stoop his own neck to the enemy's halter!
Oh the treason of Benedict Arnold was better
Than the scoffing at Love, and then sub rosa wooing;
This mocking at Beauty, yet wearing her fetter—
Alack and alas for such bachelor doing!
120
“Oh the weapons of Saul are the Philistine's prey!
Who shall stand when the heart of the champion fails him;
Who strive when the mighty his shield casts away,
And yields up his post when a woman assails him?
Alone and despairing thy brother remains
At the desolate shrine where we stood up together,
Half tempted to envy thy self-imposed chains,
And stoop his own neck for the noose of the tether!
Who shall stand when the heart of the champion fails him;
Who strive when the mighty his shield casts away,
And yields up his post when a woman assails him?
Alone and despairing thy brother remains
At the desolate shrine where we stood up together,
Half tempted to envy thy self-imposed chains,
And stoop his own neck for the noose of the tether!
“So firm and yet false! Thou mind'st me in sooth
Of St. Anthony's fall when the spirit of evil
[OMITTED]
Filled the cell of his rest with imp, dragon and devil;
But the Saint never lifted his eyes from the Book
Till the tempter appeared in the guise of a woman;
And her voice was so sweet that he ventured one look,
And the devil rejoiced that the Saint had proved human!”
Of St. Anthony's fall when the spirit of evil
[OMITTED]
Filled the cell of his rest with imp, dragon and devil;
But the Saint never lifted his eyes from the Book
Till the tempter appeared in the guise of a woman;
And her voice was so sweet that he ventured one look,
And the devil rejoiced that the Saint had proved human!”
GAIL HAMILTON'S WEDDING
Amesbury, 12th mo. 29th, 1874.
“Come to my wedding,” the missive runs,
“Come hither and list to the holy vows;
If you miss this chance you will wait full long
To see another at Gail-a House!”
“Come hither and list to the holy vows;
If you miss this chance you will wait full long
To see another at Gail-a House!”
Her wedding! What can the woman expect?
Does she think her friends can be jolly and glad?
Is it only the child who sighs and grieves
For the loss of something he never had?
Does she think her friends can be jolly and glad?
121
For the loss of something he never had?
Yet I say to myself, Is it strange that she
Should choose the way that we know is good
What right have we to grumble and whine
In a pitiful dog-in-the-manger mood?
Should choose the way that we know is good
What right have we to grumble and whine
In a pitiful dog-in-the-manger mood?
What boots it to maunder with “if” and “perhaps,”
And “it might have been” when we know it could n't,
If she had been willing (a vain surmise),
It 's ten to one that Barkis would n't.
And “it might have been” when we know it could n't,
If she had been willing (a vain surmise),
It 's ten to one that Barkis would n't.
'T was pleasant to think (if it was a dream)
That our loving homage her need supplied,
Humbler and sadder, if wiser, we walk
To feel her life from our own lives glide.
That our loving homage her need supplied,
Humbler and sadder, if wiser, we walk
To feel her life from our own lives glide.
Let her go, God bless her! I fling for luck
My old shoe after her. Stay, what 's this?
Is it all a mistake? The letter reads,
“My niece, you must know, is the happy miss.”
My old shoe after her. Stay, what 's this?
Is it all a mistake? The letter reads,
“My niece, you must know, is the happy miss.”
All 's right! To grind out a song of cheer
I set to the crank my ancient muse.
Will somebody kiss that bride for me?
I fling with my blessing, both boots and shoes!
I set to the crank my ancient muse.
Will somebody kiss that bride for me?
I fling with my blessing, both boots and shoes!
To the lucky bridegroom I cry all hail!
He is sure of having, let come what may,
The sage advice of the wisest aunt
That ever her fair charge gave away.
He is sure of having, let come what may,
The sage advice of the wisest aunt
That ever her fair charge gave away.
The Hamilton bell, if bell there be,
Methinks is ringing its merriest peal;
And, shades of John Calvin! I seem to see
The hostess treading the wedding reel!
Methinks is ringing its merriest peal;
And, shades of John Calvin! I seem to see
The hostess treading the wedding reel!
The years are many, the years are long,
My dreams are over, my songs are sung,
But, out of a heart that has not grown cold,
I bid God-speed to the fair and young.
My dreams are over, my songs are sung,
But, out of a heart that has not grown cold,
I bid God-speed to the fair and young.
122
All joy go with them from year to year;
Never by me shall their pledge be blamed
Of the perfect love that has cast out fear,
And the beautiful hope that is not ashamed!
Never by me shall their pledge be blamed
Of the perfect love that has cast out fear,
And the beautiful hope that is not ashamed!
123
MY DOUBLE
I'm in Amesbury, not at Oak Knoll;
'T is my double here you see:
I'm sitting on the platform,
Where the programme places me—
'T is my double here you see:
I'm sitting on the platform,
Where the programme places me—
Where the women nudge each other,
And point me out and say:
“That 's the man who makes the verses—
My! how old he is and gray!”
And point me out and say:
“That 's the man who makes the verses—
My! how old he is and gray!”
I hear the crackers popping,
I hear the bass drums throb;
I sit at Boynton's right hand,
And help him boss the job.
I hear the bass drums throb;
I sit at Boynton's right hand,
And help him boss the job.
And like the great stone giant
Dug out of Cardiff mire,
We lift our man of metal,
And resurrect Josiah!
Dug out of Cardiff mire,
We lift our man of metal,
And resurrect Josiah!
Around, the Hampshire Democrats
Stand looking glum and grim,—
“That thing the Kingston doctor!
Do you call that critter him?
Stand looking glum and grim,—
“That thing the Kingston doctor!
Do you call that critter him?
124
“The pesky Black Republicans
Have gone and changed his figure;
We buried him a white man—
They 've dug him up a nigger!”
Have gone and changed his figure;
We buried him a white man—
They 've dug him up a nigger!”
I hear the wild winds rushing
From Boynton's limber jaws,
Swift as his railroad bicycle,
And buzzing like his saws!
From Boynton's limber jaws,
Swift as his railroad bicycle,
And buzzing like his saws!
But Hiram the wise is explaining
It 's only an old oration
Of Ginger-Pop Emmons, come down
By way of undulation!
It 's only an old oration
Of Ginger-Pop Emmons, come down
By way of undulation!
Then Jacob, the vehicle-maker,
Comes forward to inquire
If Governor Ames will relieve the town
Of the care of old Josiah.
Comes forward to inquire
If Governor Ames will relieve the town
Of the care of old Josiah.
And the Governor says: “If Amesbury can't
Take care of its own town charge,
The State, I suppose, must do it,
And keep him from runnin' at large!”
Take care of its own town charge,
The State, I suppose, must do it,
And keep him from runnin' at large!”
Then rises the orator Robert,
Recounting with grave precision
The tale of the great Declaration,
And the claims of his brother physician.
Recounting with grave precision
The tale of the great Declaration,
And the claims of his brother physician.
Both doctors, and both Congressmen,
Tall and straight, you 'd scarce know which is
The live man, and which is the image,
Except by their trousers and breeches!
Tall and straight, you 'd scarce know which is
The live man, and which is the image,
Except by their trousers and breeches!
Then when the Andover “heretic”
Reads the rhymes I dared not utter,
I fancy Josiah is scowling,
And his bronze lips seem to mutter:
Reads the rhymes I dared not utter,
I fancy Josiah is scowling,
And his bronze lips seem to mutter:
“Dry up! and stop your nonsense!
The Lord who in His mercies
Once saved me from the Tories,
Preserve me now from verses!”
The Lord who in His mercies
Once saved me from the Tories,
Preserve me now from verses!”
125
Bad taste in the old Continental!
Whose knowledge of verse was at best
John Rogers' farewell to his wife and
Nine children and one at the breast!
Whose knowledge of verse was at best
John Rogers' farewell to his wife and
Nine children and one at the breast!
He 's treating me worse than the Hessians
He shot in the Bennington scrimmage—
Have I outlived the newspaper critic,
To be scalped by a graven image!
He shot in the Bennington scrimmage—
Have I outlived the newspaper critic,
To be scalped by a graven image!
Perhaps, after all, I deserve it,
Since I, who was born a Quaker,
Sit here an image worshiper,
Instead of an image breaker!
Since I, who was born a Quaker,
Sit here an image worshiper,
Instead of an image breaker!
130
I WOULD NOT LOSE THAT ROMANCE WILD
I would not lose that romance wild,
That high and gifted feeling—
The power that made me fancy's child,
The clime of song revealing,
For all the power, for all the gold,
That slaves to pride and avarice hold.
That high and gifted feeling—
The power that made me fancy's child,
The clime of song revealing,
For all the power, for all the gold,
That slaves to pride and avarice hold.
I know that there are those who deem
But lightly of the lyre;—
Who ne'er have felt one blissful beam
Of song-enkindled fire
Steal o'er their spirits, as the light
Of morning o'er the face of night.
But lightly of the lyre;—
Who ne'er have felt one blissful beam
Of song-enkindled fire
Steal o'er their spirits, as the light
Of morning o'er the face of night.
Yet there 's a mystery in song—
A halo round the way
Of him who seeks the muses' throng—
An intellectual ray,
A source of pure, unfading joy—
A dream that earth can ne'er destroy.
A halo round the way
Of him who seeks the muses' throng—
An intellectual ray,
A source of pure, unfading joy—
A dream that earth can ne'er destroy.
And though the critic's scornful eye
Condemn his faltering lay,
And though with heartless apathy,
The cold world turn away—
And envy strive with secret aim,
To blast and dim his rising fame;
Condemn his faltering lay,
And though with heartless apathy,
The cold world turn away—
And envy strive with secret aim,
To blast and dim his rising fame;
Yet fresh, amid the blast that brings
Such poison on its breath,
Above the wreck of meaner things,
His lyre's unfading wreath
Shall bloom, when those who scorned his lay,
With name and power have passed away.
Such poison on its breath,
Above the wreck of meaner things,
His lyre's unfading wreath
Shall bloom, when those who scorned his lay,
With name and power have passed away.
Come then, my lyre, although there be
No witchery in thy tone;
And though the lofty harmony
Which other bards have known,
Is not, and cannot e'er be mine,
To touch with power those chords of thine.
No witchery in thy tone;
And though the lofty harmony
Which other bards have known,
Is not, and cannot e'er be mine,
To touch with power those chords of thine.
131
Yet thou canst tell, in humble strain,
The feelings of a heart,
Which, though not proud, would still disdain
To bear a meaner part,
Than that of bending at the shrine
Where their bright wreaths the muses twine.
The feelings of a heart,
Which, though not proud, would still disdain
To bear a meaner part,
Than that of bending at the shrine
Where their bright wreaths the muses twine.
Thou canst not give me wealth or fame;
Thou hast no power to shed
The halo of a deathless name
Around my last cold bed;
To other chords than thine belong
The breathings of immortal song.
Thou hast no power to shed
The halo of a deathless name
Around my last cold bed;
To other chords than thine belong
The breathings of immortal song.
Yet come, my lyre! some hearts may beat
Responsive to thy lay;
The tide of sympathy may meet
Thy master's lonely way;
And kindred souls from envy free
May listen to its minstrelsy.
Responsive to thy lay;
The tide of sympathy may meet
Thy master's lonely way;
And kindred souls from envy free
May listen to its minstrelsy.
8th month, 1827.
NEW ENGLAND
Land of the forest and the rock—
Of dark blue lake and mighty river—
Of mountains reared aloft to mock
The storm's career—the lightning's shock,—
My own green land forever!—
Land of the beautiful and brave—
The freeman's home—the martyr's grave—
The nursery of giant men,
Whose deeds have linked with every glen,
And every hill and every stream,
The romance of some warrior dream!—
Oh never may a son of thine,
Where'er his wandering steps incline,
Forget the sky which bent above
His childhood like a dream of love—
The stream beneath the green hill flowing—
The broad-armed trees above it growing—
The clear breeze through the foliage blowing;—
Or hear unmoved the taunt of scorn
Breathed o'er the brave New England born;—
Or mark the stranger's Jaguar hand
Disturb the ashes of thy dead—
The buried glory of a land
Whose soil with noble blood is red,
And sanctified in every part,
Nor feel resentment like a brand
Unsheathing from his fiery heart!
Of dark blue lake and mighty river—
Of mountains reared aloft to mock
The storm's career—the lightning's shock,—
My own green land forever!—
132
The freeman's home—the martyr's grave—
The nursery of giant men,
Whose deeds have linked with every glen,
And every hill and every stream,
The romance of some warrior dream!—
Oh never may a son of thine,
Where'er his wandering steps incline,
Forget the sky which bent above
His childhood like a dream of love—
The stream beneath the green hill flowing—
The broad-armed trees above it growing—
The clear breeze through the foliage blowing;—
Or hear unmoved the taunt of scorn
Breathed o'er the brave New England born;—
Or mark the stranger's Jaguar hand
Disturb the ashes of thy dead—
The buried glory of a land
Whose soil with noble blood is red,
And sanctified in every part,
Nor feel resentment like a brand
Unsheathing from his fiery heart!
Oh—greener hills may catch the sun
Beneath the glorious heaven of France;
And streams rejoicing as they run
Like life beneath the day-beam's glance,
May wander where the orange bough
With golden fruit is bending low;—
And there may bend a brighter sky
O'er green and classic Italy—
And pillared fane and ancient grave
Bear record of another time,
And over shaft and architrave
The green luxuriant ivy climb;—
And far towards the rising sun
The palm may shake its leaves on high,
Where flowers are opening one by one,
Like stars upon the twilight sky,
And breezes soft as sighs of love
Above the rich mimosa stray,
And through the Brahmin's sacred grove
A thousand bright-hued pinions play!—
Yet, unto thee, New England, still
Thy wandering sons shall stretch their arms,
And thy rude chart of rock and hill
Seem dearer than the land of palms!
Thy massy oak and mountain pine
More welcome than the banyan's shade,
And every free, blue stream of thine
Seem richer than the golden bed
Of Oriental waves, which glow
And sparkle with the wealth below!
Beneath the glorious heaven of France;
And streams rejoicing as they run
Like life beneath the day-beam's glance,
May wander where the orange bough
With golden fruit is bending low;—
And there may bend a brighter sky
O'er green and classic Italy—
And pillared fane and ancient grave
Bear record of another time,
And over shaft and architrave
The green luxuriant ivy climb;—
And far towards the rising sun
The palm may shake its leaves on high,
Where flowers are opening one by one,
Like stars upon the twilight sky,
And breezes soft as sighs of love
Above the rich mimosa stray,
And through the Brahmin's sacred grove
A thousand bright-hued pinions play!—
133
Thy wandering sons shall stretch their arms,
And thy rude chart of rock and hill
Seem dearer than the land of palms!
Thy massy oak and mountain pine
More welcome than the banyan's shade,
And every free, blue stream of thine
Seem richer than the golden bed
Of Oriental waves, which glow
And sparkle with the wealth below!
Land of my fathers!—if my name,
Now humble, and unwed to fame,
Hereafter burn upon the lip,
As one of those which may not die,
Linked in eternal fellowship
With visions pure and strong and high—
If the wild dreams which quicken now
The throbbing pulse of heart and brow,
Hereafter take a real form
Like spectres changed to beings warm;
And over temples worn and gray
The star-like crown of glory shine,—
Thine be the bard's undying lay,
The murmur of his praise be thine!
Now humble, and unwed to fame,
Hereafter burn upon the lip,
As one of those which may not die,
Linked in eternal fellowship
With visions pure and strong and high—
If the wild dreams which quicken now
The throbbing pulse of heart and brow,
Hereafter take a real form
Like spectres changed to beings warm;
And over temples worn and gray
The star-like crown of glory shine,—
Thine be the bard's undying lay,
The murmur of his praise be thine!
SONG
That vow of thine was full and deep
As man has ever spoken—
A vow within the heart to keep,
Unchangeable, unbroken.
As man has ever spoken—
A vow within the heart to keep,
Unchangeable, unbroken.
'T was by the glory of the Sun,
And by the light of Even,
And by the Stars, that, one by one,
Are lighted up in Heaven!
And by the light of Even,
134
Are lighted up in Heaven!
That Even might forget its gold—
And Sunlight fade forever—
The constant Stars grow dim and cold,—
But thy affection—never!
And Sunlight fade forever—
The constant Stars grow dim and cold,—
But thy affection—never!
And Earth might wear a changeful sign,
And fickleness the Sky—
Yet, even then, that love of thine
Might never change nor die.
And fickleness the Sky—
Yet, even then, that love of thine
Might never change nor die.
The golden Sun is shining yet—
And at the fall of Even
There 's beauty in the warm Sunset,
And Stars are bright in Heaven.
And at the fall of Even
There 's beauty in the warm Sunset,
And Stars are bright in Heaven.
No change is on the blessed Sky—
The quiet Earth has none—
Nature has still her constancy,
And Thou art changed alone!
The quiet Earth has none—
Nature has still her constancy,
And Thou art changed alone!
135
[She came to me last night]
She came to me last night—The floor gave back no tread,
She stood by me in the wan moonlight—
In the white robes of the dead—
Pale—pale, and very mournfully
She bent her light form over me—
I heard no sound—I felt no breath
Breathe o'er me from that face of death;
Its dark eyes rested on my own,
Rayless and cold as eyes of stone;
Yet in their fixed, unchanging gaze,
Something which told of other days—
A sadness in their quiet glare,
As if Love's smile were frozen there,
Came o'er me with an icy thrill—
O God! I feel its presence still!
And fearfully and dimly
The pale cold vision passed,
Yet those dark eyes were fixed on me
In sadness to the last.
136
As to the victim on the rack,
Amid the pause of mortal pain
Life steals to suffer once again!
Was it a dream? I looked around,
The moonlight through the lattice shone;
The same pale glow that dimly crowned
The forehead of the spectral one!
And then I knew she had been there—
Not in her breathing loveliness,
But as the grave's lone sleepers are,
Silent and cold and passionless!
A weary thought—a fearful thought—
Within the secret heart to keep:
Would that the past might be forgot—
Would that the dead might sleep!
A FRAGMENT
Lady, farewell! I know thy heartHas angel strength to soar above
The cold reserve—the studied art
That mock the glowing wings of love.
Its thoughts are purer than the pearl
That slumbers where the wave is driven,
Yet freer than the winds that furl
The banners of the clouded heaven.
And thou hast been the brightest star
That shone along my weary way—
Brighter than rainbow visions are,
A changeless and enduring ray.
Nor will my memory lightly fade
From thy pure dreams, high-thoughted girl;—
The ocean may forget what made
Its blue expanse of waters curl,
137
Earth in its beauty may forget
The recent cloud that floated by;
The glories of the last sunset—
But not from thy unchanging mind
Will fade the dreams of other years,
And love will linger far behind,
In memory's resting place of tears!
139
THE DEAD ICHNEUMON
Stranger! they have made thy grave
By the darkly flowing river;
But the washing of its wave
Shall disturb thee never!
Nor its autumn tides which run
Turbid to the rising sun,
Nor the harsh and hollow thunder,
When its fetters burst asunder,
And its winter ice is sweeping,
Downward to the ocean's keeping.
By the darkly flowing river;
But the washing of its wave
Shall disturb thee never!
Nor its autumn tides which run
Turbid to the rising sun,
Nor the harsh and hollow thunder,
When its fetters burst asunder,
And its winter ice is sweeping,
Downward to the ocean's keeping.
Sleeper! thou canst rest as calm
As beside thine own dark stream,
In the shadow of the palm,
Or the white sand gleam!
Though thy grave be never hid
By the o'ershadowing pyramid,
Frowning o'er the desert sand,
Like no work of mortal hand,
Telling aye the same proud story
Of the old Egyptian glory!
As beside thine own dark stream,
In the shadow of the palm,
Or the white sand gleam!
Though thy grave be never hid
By the o'ershadowing pyramid,
Frowning o'er the desert sand,
Like no work of mortal hand,
Telling aye the same proud story
Of the old Egyptian glory!
Wand'rer! would that we might know
Something of thy early time—
Something of thy weal or woe
In thine own far clime!
If thy step hath fallen where
Those of Cleopatra were,
When the Roman cast his crown
At a woman's footstool down,
Deeming glory's sunshine dim
To the smile which welcomed him.
Something of thy early time—
Something of thy weal or woe
In thine own far clime!
If thy step hath fallen where
Those of Cleopatra were,
When the Roman cast his crown
At a woman's footstool down,
Deeming glory's sunshine dim
To the smile which welcomed him.
If beside the reedy Nile
Thou hast ever held thy way,
Where the embryo crocodile
In the damp sedge lay;
When the river monster's eye
Kindled at thy passing by,
And the pliant reeds were bending
Where his blackened form was wending,
And the basking serpent started
Wildly when thy light form darted.
Thou hast ever held thy way,
Where the embryo crocodile
In the damp sedge lay;
140
Kindled at thy passing by,
And the pliant reeds were bending
Where his blackened form was wending,
And the basking serpent started
Wildly when thy light form darted.
Thou hast seen the desert steed
Mounted by his Arab chief,
Passing like some dream of speed,
Wonderful and brief!
Where the palm-tree's shadows lurk,
Thou hast seen the turbaned Turk,
Resting in voluptuous pride
With his harem at his side,
Veiled victims of his will,
Scorned and lost, yet lovely still.
Mounted by his Arab chief,
Passing like some dream of speed,
Wonderful and brief!
Where the palm-tree's shadows lurk,
Thou hast seen the turbaned Turk,
Resting in voluptuous pride
With his harem at his side,
Veiled victims of his will,
Scorned and lost, yet lovely still.
And the samiel hath gone
O'er thee like a demon's breath,
Marking victims one by one
For its master—Death.
And the mirage thou hast seen
Glittering in the sunny sheen,
Like some lake in sunlight sleeping,
Where the desert wind was sweeping,
And the sandy column gliding,
Like some giant onward striding.
O'er thee like a demon's breath,
Marking victims one by one
For its master—Death.
And the mirage thou hast seen
Glittering in the sunny sheen,
Like some lake in sunlight sleeping,
Where the desert wind was sweeping,
And the sandy column gliding,
Like some giant onward striding.
Once the dwellers of thy home
Blessed the path thy race had trod,
Kneeling in the temple dome
To a reptile god;
Where the shrine of Isis shone
Through the veil before its throne,
And the priest with fixéd eyes
Watched his human sacrifice;
And the priestess knelt in prayer,
Like some dream of beauty there.
Blessed the path thy race had trod,
Kneeling in the temple dome
To a reptile god;
Where the shrine of Isis shone
Through the veil before its throne,
And the priest with fixéd eyes
Watched his human sacrifice;
And the priestess knelt in prayer,
Like some dream of beauty there.
Thou, unhonored and unknown,
Wand'rer o'er the mighty sea!
None for thee have reverence shown—
None have worshipped thee!
Here in vulgar Yankee land,
Thou hast passed from hand to hand,
And in Frinksborough found a home,
Where no change can ever come!
What thy closing hours befell
None may ask, and none may tell.
Wand'rer o'er the mighty sea!
None for thee have reverence shown—
None have worshipped thee!
141
Thou hast passed from hand to hand,
And in Frinksborough found a home,
Where no change can ever come!
What thy closing hours befell
None may ask, and none may tell.
Who hath mourned above thy grave?
None—except thy ancient nurse.
Well she may—thy being gave
Coppers to her purse!
Who hath questioned her of thee?
None, alas! save maidens three,
Here to view thee while in being,
Yankee curious, paid for seeing,
And would gratis view once more
That for which they paid before.
None—except thy ancient nurse.
Well she may—thy being gave
Coppers to her purse!
Who hath questioned her of thee?
None, alas! save maidens three,
Here to view thee while in being,
Yankee curious, paid for seeing,
And would gratis view once more
That for which they paid before.
Yet thy quiet rest may be
Envied by the human kind,
Who are showing off like thee,
To the careless mind,
Gifts which torture while they flow,
Thoughts which madden while they glow,
Pouring out the heart's deep wealth,
Proffering quiet, ease, and health,
For the fame which comes to them
Blended with their requiem!
Envied by the human kind,
Who are showing off like thee,
To the careless mind,
Gifts which torture while they flow,
Thoughts which madden while they glow,
Pouring out the heart's deep wealth,
Proffering quiet, ease, and health,
For the fame which comes to them
Blended with their requiem!
142
THE GRAVE OF MORGAN
Wild torrent of thy lakes! fling out
Thy mighty wave to breeze and sun,
And let the rainbow curve above
The foldings of thy clouds of dun.
Uplift thy earthquake voice, and pour
Its thunder to the reeling shore,
Till caverned cliff and hanging wood
Roll back the echo of thy flood,
For there is one who slumbers now
Beneath thy bow-encircled brow,
Whose spirit hath a voice and sign
More strong, more terrible than thine.
Thy mighty wave to breeze and sun,
And let the rainbow curve above
The foldings of thy clouds of dun.
Uplift thy earthquake voice, and pour
Its thunder to the reeling shore,
Till caverned cliff and hanging wood
Roll back the echo of thy flood,
For there is one who slumbers now
Beneath thy bow-encircled brow,
Whose spirit hath a voice and sign
More strong, more terrible than thine.
A million hearts have heard that cry
Ring upward to the very sky;
It thunders still—it cannot sleep,
But louder than the troubled deep,
When the fierce spirit of the air
Hath made his arm of vengeance bare,
And wave to wave is calling loud
Beneath the veiling thunder-cloud;
That potent voice is sounding still—
The voice of unrequited ill.
Ring upward to the very sky;
It thunders still—it cannot sleep,
But louder than the troubled deep,
When the fierce spirit of the air
Hath made his arm of vengeance bare,
And wave to wave is calling loud
Beneath the veiling thunder-cloud;
That potent voice is sounding still—
The voice of unrequited ill.
Dark cataract of the lakes! thy name
Unholy deeds have linked to fame.
High soars to heaven thy giant head,
Even as a monument to him
Whose cold unheeded form is laid
Down, down amid thy caverns dim.
His requiem the fearful tone
Of waters falling from their throne
In the mid air, his burial shroud
The wreathings of thy torrent cloud,
His blazonry the rainbow thrown
Superbly round thy brow of stone.
Unholy deeds have linked to fame.
High soars to heaven thy giant head,
Even as a monument to him
Whose cold unheeded form is laid
Down, down amid thy caverns dim.
His requiem the fearful tone
Of waters falling from their throne
In the mid air, his burial shroud
The wreathings of thy torrent cloud,
His blazonry the rainbow thrown
Superbly round thy brow of stone.
Aye, raise thy voice—the sterner one
Which tells of crime in darkness done,
Groans upward from thy prison gloom
Like voices from the thunder's home.
And men have heard it, and the might
Of freemen rising from their thrall
Shall drag their fetters into light,
And spurn and trample on them all.
And vengeance long—too long delayed—
Shall rouse to wrath the souls of men,
And freedom raise her holy head
Above the fallen tyrant then.
Which tells of crime in darkness done,
Groans upward from thy prison gloom
Like voices from the thunder's home.
143
Of freemen rising from their thrall
Shall drag their fetters into light,
And spurn and trample on them all.
And vengeance long—too long delayed—
Shall rouse to wrath the souls of men,
And freedom raise her holy head
Above the fallen tyrant then.
THE THUNDER SPIRIT
Dweller of the unpillared air,
Marshalling the storm to war,
Heralding its presence where
Rolls along thy cloudy car!
Thou that speakest from on high,
Like an earthquake's bursting forth,
Sounding through the veiléd sky
As an angel's trumpet doth.
Marshalling the storm to war,
Heralding its presence where
Rolls along thy cloudy car!
Thou that speakest from on high,
Like an earthquake's bursting forth,
Sounding through the veiléd sky
As an angel's trumpet doth.
Bending from thy dark dominion
Like a fierce, revengeful king,
Blasting with thy fiery pinion
Every high and holy thing;
Smitten from their mountain prison
Thou hast bid the streams go free,
And the ruin's smoke has risen,
Like a sacrifice to thee!
[OMITTED]
Monarch of each cloudy form,
Gathered on the blue of heaven,
When the trumpet of the storm
To thy lip of flame is given!
In the wave and in the breeze,
In the shadow and the sun,
God hath many languages,
And thy mighty voice is one!
Like a fierce, revengeful king,
Blasting with thy fiery pinion
Every high and holy thing;
Smitten from their mountain prison
Thou hast bid the streams go free,
And the ruin's smoke has risen,
Like a sacrifice to thee!
[OMITTED]
Monarch of each cloudy form,
Gathered on the blue of heaven,
When the trumpet of the storm
To thy lip of flame is given!
In the wave and in the breeze,
In the shadow and the sun,
God hath many languages,
And thy mighty voice is one!
146
THE NORTHERN LIGHTS
A light is troubling heaven! A strange dull glow
Hangs like a half-quenched veil of fire between
The blue sky and the earth; and the shorn stars
Gleam faint and sickly through it. Day hath left
No token of its parting, and the blush
With which it welcomed the embrace of Night
Has faded from the blue cheek of the West;
Yet from the solemn darkness of the North,
Stretched o'er the “empty place” by God's own hand,
Trembles and waves that curtain of pale fire,—
Tingeing with baleful and unnatural hues
The winter snows beneath. It is as if
Nature's last curse—the fearful plague of fire—
Were working in the elements, and the skies
Even as a scroll consuming.
Lo, a change!
The fiery wonder sinks, and all along
A dark deep crimson rests—a sea of blood,
Untroubled by a wave. And over all
Bendeth a luminous arch of pale, pure white,
Clearly contrasted with the blue above,
And the dark red beneath it. Glorious!
How like a pathway for the Shining Ones,
The pure and beautiful intelligences
Who minister in Heaven, and offer up
Their praise as incense, or like that which rose
Before the Pilgrim prophet, when the tread
Of the most holy angels brightened it,
And in his dream the haunted sleeper saw
The ascending and descending of the blest!
Hangs like a half-quenched veil of fire between
The blue sky and the earth; and the shorn stars
Gleam faint and sickly through it. Day hath left
No token of its parting, and the blush
With which it welcomed the embrace of Night
Has faded from the blue cheek of the West;
Yet from the solemn darkness of the North,
Stretched o'er the “empty place” by God's own hand,
Trembles and waves that curtain of pale fire,—
Tingeing with baleful and unnatural hues
The winter snows beneath. It is as if
Nature's last curse—the fearful plague of fire—
Were working in the elements, and the skies
Even as a scroll consuming.
Lo, a change!
The fiery wonder sinks, and all along
A dark deep crimson rests—a sea of blood,
Untroubled by a wave. And over all
Bendeth a luminous arch of pale, pure white,
Clearly contrasted with the blue above,
And the dark red beneath it. Glorious!
How like a pathway for the Shining Ones,
The pure and beautiful intelligences
Who minister in Heaven, and offer up
Their praise as incense, or like that which rose
Before the Pilgrim prophet, when the tread
Of the most holy angels brightened it,
And in his dream the haunted sleeper saw
The ascending and descending of the blest!
And yet another change! O'er half the sky
A long bright flame is trembling, like the sword
Of the great angel of the guarded gate
Of Paradise, when all the holy streams
And beautiful bowers of Eden-land blushed red
Beneath its awful wavering, and the eyes
Of the outcasts quailed before its glare,
As from the immediate questioning of God.
A long bright flame is trembling, like the sword
Of the great angel of the guarded gate
Of Paradise, when all the holy streams
And beautiful bowers of Eden-land blushed red
Beneath its awful wavering, and the eyes
147
As from the immediate questioning of God.
And men are gazing at these “signs in heaven,”
With most unwonted earnestness, and fair
And beautiful brows are reddening in the light
Of this strange vision of the upper air:
Even as the dwellers of Jerusalem
Beleaguered by the Romans—when the skies
Of Palestine were thronged with fiery shapes,
And from Antonia's tower the mailed Jew
Saw his own image pictured in the air,
Contending with the heathen; and the priest
Beside the temple's altar veiled his face
From the fire-written language of the sky.
With most unwonted earnestness, and fair
And beautiful brows are reddening in the light
Of this strange vision of the upper air:
Even as the dwellers of Jerusalem
Beleaguered by the Romans—when the skies
Of Palestine were thronged with fiery shapes,
And from Antonia's tower the mailed Jew
Saw his own image pictured in the air,
Contending with the heathen; and the priest
Beside the temple's altar veiled his face
From the fire-written language of the sky.
Oh God of mystery! these fires are thine!
Thy breath hath kindled them, and there they burn
Amid the permanent glory of Thy heavens,
That earliest revelation written out
In starry language, visible to all,
Lifting unto Thyself the heavy eyes
Of the down-looking spirits of the earth!
The Indian, leaning on his hunting-bow,
Where the ice-mountains hem the frozen pole,
And the hoar architect of winter piles
With tireless hand his snowy pyramids,
Looks upward in deep awe,—while all around
The eternal ices kindle with the hues
Which tremble on their gleaming pinnacles
And sharp cold ridges of enduring frost,—
And points his child to the Great Spirit's fire.
Thy breath hath kindled them, and there they burn
Amid the permanent glory of Thy heavens,
That earliest revelation written out
In starry language, visible to all,
Lifting unto Thyself the heavy eyes
Of the down-looking spirits of the earth!
The Indian, leaning on his hunting-bow,
Where the ice-mountains hem the frozen pole,
And the hoar architect of winter piles
With tireless hand his snowy pyramids,
Looks upward in deep awe,—while all around
The eternal ices kindle with the hues
Which tremble on their gleaming pinnacles
And sharp cold ridges of enduring frost,—
And points his child to the Great Spirit's fire.
Alas for us who boast of deeper lore,
If in the maze of our vague theories,
Our speculations, and our restless aim
To search the secret, and familiarize
The awful things of nature, we forget
To own Thy presence in Thy mysteries!
If in the maze of our vague theories,
Our speculations, and our restless aim
To search the secret, and familiarize
The awful things of nature, we forget
To own Thy presence in Thy mysteries!
148
THE WILLOW
Oh, dear to my heart are the scenes which delighted
My fancy in moments I ne'er can recall,
When each happy hour new pleasures invited,
And hope pictured visions more lovely than all.
When I gazed with a light heart transported and glowing,
On the forest-crowned hill, and the rivulet's tide,
O'ershaded with tall grass, and rapidly flowing
Around the lone willow that stood by its side—
The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow, that grew by its side.
My fancy in moments I ne'er can recall,
When each happy hour new pleasures invited,
And hope pictured visions more lovely than all.
When I gazed with a light heart transported and glowing,
On the forest-crowned hill, and the rivulet's tide,
O'ershaded with tall grass, and rapidly flowing
Around the lone willow that stood by its side—
The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow, that grew by its side.
Dear scenes of past years, when the objects around me
Seemed forms to awaken the transports of joy;
Ere yet the dull cares of experience had found me,
The dearly-loved visions of youth to destroy,—
Ye seem to awaken, whene'er I discover
The grass-shadowed rivulet rapidly glide,
The green verdant meads of the vale wandering over
And laving the willows that stand by its side—
The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow, that stands by its side;—
Seemed forms to awaken the transports of joy;
Ere yet the dull cares of experience had found me,
The dearly-loved visions of youth to destroy,—
Ye seem to awaken, whene'er I discover
The grass-shadowed rivulet rapidly glide,
The green verdant meads of the vale wandering over
And laving the willows that stand by its side—
The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow, that stands by its side;—
How oft 'neath the shade of that wide-spreading willow
I have laid myself down from anxiety free,
Reclining my head on the green grassy pillow,
That waved round the roots of that dearly-loved tree;
Where swift from the far distant uplands descending,
In the bright sunbeam sparkling, the rivulet's tide
With murmuring echoes came gracefully wending
Its course round the willow that stood by its side—
The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow that stood by its side.
I have laid myself down from anxiety free,
Reclining my head on the green grassy pillow,
That waved round the roots of that dearly-loved tree;
Where swift from the far distant uplands descending,
In the bright sunbeam sparkling, the rivulet's tide
With murmuring echoes came gracefully wending
Its course round the willow that stood by its side—
The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow that stood by its side.
149
Haunts of my childhood, that used to awaken
Emotions of joy in my infantile breast,
Ere yet the fond pleasures of youth had forsaken
My bosom, and all the bright dreams you impressed
On my memory had faded, ye give not the feeling
Of joy that ye did, when I gazed on the tide,
As gracefully winding, its currents came stealing
Around the lone willow that stood by its side—
The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow, that stood by its side.
Emotions of joy in my infantile breast,
Ere yet the fond pleasures of youth had forsaken
My bosom, and all the bright dreams you impressed
On my memory had faded, ye give not the feeling
Of joy that ye did, when I gazed on the tide,
As gracefully winding, its currents came stealing
Around the lone willow that stood by its side—
The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow, that stood by its side.
150
WE'RE FREE
The robber o'er the prairie stalks
And calls the land his own,
And he who talks as Slavery talks
Is free to talk alone.
But tell the knaves we are not slaves,
And tell them slaves we ne'er will be;
Come weal or woe, the world shall know,
We 're free, we 're free, we 're free.
And calls the land his own,
And he who talks as Slavery talks
Is free to talk alone.
But tell the knaves we are not slaves,
And tell them slaves we ne'er will be;
Come weal or woe, the world shall know,
We 're free, we 're free, we 're free.
Oh, watcher on the outer wall,
How wears the night away?
I hear the birds of morning call,
I see the break of day!
Rise, tell the knaves, etc.
How wears the night away?
I hear the birds of morning call,
I see the break of day!
Rise, tell the knaves, etc.
The hands that hold the sword and purse
Ere long shall lose their prey;
And they who blindly wrought the curse,
The curse shall sweep away!
Then tell the knaves, etc.
Ere long shall lose their prey;
And they who blindly wrought the curse,
The curse shall sweep away!
Then tell the knaves, etc.
The land again in peace shall rest,
With blood no longer stained;
The virgin beauty of the West
Shall be no more profaned.
We'll teach the knaves, etc.
With blood no longer stained;
The virgin beauty of the West
Shall be no more profaned.
We'll teach the knaves, etc.
151
The snake about her cradle twined,
Shall infant Kansas tear;
And freely on the Western wind
Shall float her golden hair!
So tell the knaves, etc.
Shall infant Kansas tear;
And freely on the Western wind
Shall float her golden hair!
So tell the knaves, etc.
Then let the idlers stand apart,
And cowards shun the fight;
We'll band together, heart to heart,
Forget, forgive, unite!
And tell the knaves we are not slaves,
And tell them slaves we ne'er will be;
Come weal or woe, the world shall know
We 're free, we 're free, we 're free!
And cowards shun the fight;
We'll band together, heart to heart,
Forget, forgive, unite!
And tell the knaves we are not slaves,
And tell them slaves we ne'er will be;
Come weal or woe, the world shall know
We 're free, we 're free, we 're free!
FREMONT'S RIDE
As his mountain men followed, undoubting and bold,
O'er hill and o'er desert, through tempest and cold,
So the people now burst from each fetter and thrall,
And answer with shouting the wild bugle call.
Who'll follow? Who'll follow?
The bands gather fast;
They who ride with Fremont
Ride in triumph at last!
O'er hill and o'er desert, through tempest and cold,
So the people now burst from each fetter and thrall,
And answer with shouting the wild bugle call.
Who'll follow? Who'll follow?
The bands gather fast;
They who ride with Fremont
Ride in triumph at last!
Oh, speed the bold riders! fling loose every rein,
The race run for freedom is not run in vain;
From mountain and prairie, from lake and from sea,
Ride gallant and hopeful, ride fearless and free!
Who'll follow, etc.
The race run for freedom is not run in vain;
From mountain and prairie, from lake and from sea,
Ride gallant and hopeful, ride fearless and free!
Who'll follow, etc.
The shades of the Fathers for Freedom who died,
As they rode in the war storm, now ride at our side;
Their great souls shall strengthen our own for the fray,
And the glance of our leader make certain the way.
Then follow, etc.
As they rode in the war storm, now ride at our side;
Their great souls shall strengthen our own for the fray,
And the glance of our leader make certain the way.
Then follow, etc.
152
We ride not for honors, ambition or place,
But the wrong to redress, and redeem the disgrace;
Not for the North, nor for South, but the best good of all,
We follow Fremont, and his wild bugle call!
Who'll follow? Who'll follow?
The bands gather fast;
They who ride with Fremont
Ride in triumph at last!
But the wrong to redress, and redeem the disgrace;
Not for the North, nor for South, but the best good of all,
We follow Fremont, and his wild bugle call!
Who'll follow? Who'll follow?
The bands gather fast;
They who ride with Fremont
Ride in triumph at last!
THE TIMES
“Oh dear! oh dear! I grieve, I grieve,
For the good old days of Adam and Eve.”
For the good old days of Adam and Eve.”
The times, the times, I say, the times are growing worse than ever;
The good old ways our fathers trod shall grace their children never.
The homely hearth of ancient mirth, all traces of the plough,
The places of their worship, are all forgotten now!
The good old ways our fathers trod shall grace their children never.
The homely hearth of ancient mirth, all traces of the plough,
The places of their worship, are all forgotten now!
Farewell the farmers' honest looks and independent mien,
The tassel of his waving corn, the blossom of the bean,
The turnip top, the pumpkin vine, the produce of his toil,
Have given place to flower pots, and plants of foreign soil.
The tassel of his waving corn, the blossom of the bean,
The turnip top, the pumpkin vine, the produce of his toil,
Have given place to flower pots, and plants of foreign soil.
Farewell the pleasant husking match, its merry after scenes,
When Indian pudding smoked beside the giant pot of beans;
When ladies joined the social band, nor once affected fear,
But gave a pretty cheek to kiss for every crimson ear.
When Indian pudding smoked beside the giant pot of beans;
When ladies joined the social band, nor once affected fear,
But gave a pretty cheek to kiss for every crimson ear.
153
Affected modesty was not the test of virtue then,
And few took pains to swoon away at sight of ugly men;
For well they knew the purity which woman's heart should own
Depends not on appearances, but on the heart alone.
And few took pains to swoon away at sight of ugly men;
For well they knew the purity which woman's heart should own
Depends not on appearances, but on the heart alone.
Farewell unto the buoyancy and openness of youth—
The confidence of kindly hearts—the consciousness of truth,
The honest tone of sympathy—the language of the heart—
Now cursed by fashion's tyranny, or turned aside by art.
The confidence of kindly hearts—the consciousness of truth,
The honest tone of sympathy—the language of the heart—
Now cursed by fashion's tyranny, or turned aside by art.
Farewell the social quilting match, the song, the merry play,
The whirling of a pewter plate, the merry fines to pay,
The mimic marriage brought about by leaping o'er a broom,
The good old blind man's buff, the laugh that shook the room.
The whirling of a pewter plate, the merry fines to pay,
The mimic marriage brought about by leaping o'er a broom,
The good old blind man's buff, the laugh that shook the room.
Farewell the days of industry—the time has glided by
When pretty hands were prettiest in making pumpkin pie.
When waiting maids were needed not, and morning brought along
The music of the spinning wheel, the milkmaid's careless song.
When pretty hands were prettiest in making pumpkin pie.
When waiting maids were needed not, and morning brought along
The music of the spinning wheel, the milkmaid's careless song.
Ah, days of artless innocence! Your dwellings are no more,
And ye are turning from the path our fathers trod before;
The homely hearth of honest mirth, all traces of the plough,
The places of their worshiping, are all forgotten now!
And ye are turning from the path our fathers trod before;
The homely hearth of honest mirth, all traces of the plough,
The places of their worshiping, are all forgotten now!
A SONG OF PRAISES
For the land that gave me birth;For my native home and hearth;
For the change and overturning
Of the times of my sojourning;
For the world-step forward taken;
For an evil way forsaken;
For cruel law abolished;
For idol shrines demolished;
154
Wrought from broken gun and sabre;
For the slave-chain rent asunder
And by free feet trodden under;
For the truth defeating error;
For the love that casts out terror;
For the truer, clearer vision
Of Humanity's great mission;—
For all that man upraises,
I sing this song of praises.
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