C. W. EVEREST.-JOHN G. WHITTIER.
He will not plead to linger where pleasure is sad,
But will smile at my presence, look up, and be glad!
Thus boasted the Monarch, and onward he rode,
To bear his destruction in terror abroad!
His shafts, all unerring, sped fatal and wide,
And the dead and the dying fell thick by his side;
No pity could move him, no terror could stay,
But to Death's silent valley he bore them away.
I looked o'er creation: where, where was her throng,
So giddy in pleasure, so happy in song?
Ah! their glad hearts were stifled, and hushed was their breath, For Earth's countless millions were sleeping in death;
There were "heaps upon heaps" of the mangled and slain— The Tyrant had boasted, nor boasted in vain!
"Twas a horrible scene; not a breath-not a groan
And Death, the proud victor, was stalking alone!
61. THE AGED PRISONER.
Look on him!-through his dungeon grate,
Feebly and cold, the morning light
Comes stealing round him dim and late,
As though it loathed the sight.
Reclining on his strawy bed,
His hand upholds his drooping head-
His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard,
Unshorn his gray, neglected beard ;
And o'er his bony fingers flow
His long, dishevelled locks of snow.
No grateful fire before him glows,
And yet the winter's breath is chill;
And o'er his half-clad person goes
The frequent ague thrill!
Silent, save ever and anon,
A sound, half murmur and half groan,
Forces apart the painful grip
Of the old sufferer's bearded lip;
Oh, sad and crushing is the fate
Of old age, chained and desolate !
Just God! why lies that old man there?
A murderer shares his prison bed,
Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair,
Gleam on him fierce and red;
And the rude oath and heartless jeer
Fall ever on his loathing ear.
And, or in wakefulness or sleep,
Nerve, flesh, and pulses thrill and creep
Whene'er that ruffian's tossing limb,
Crimson with murder, touches him?
What has the gray-haired prisoner done?
Has murder stained his hands with gore?
God made the old man poor!
For this he shares a felon's cell-
The fittest earthly type of hell!
For this boon, for which he poured
His young blood on the invader's sword,
And counted light the fearful cost-
His blood-gained liberty is lost!
And so, for such a place of rest,
Old prisoner, dropped thy blood as rain On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest, And Saratoga's plain?
Look forth, thou man of many scars,
Through thy dim dungeon's iron bars;
It must be joy, in sooth, to see
Yon monument upreared to thee-
Piled granite and a prison cell-
The land repays thy service well!
Go, ring the bells, and fire the guns,
And fling the starry banner out;
Shout "Freedom!" till your lisping ones
Give back their cradle shout;
Let boasting eloquence declaim
Of honor, liberty, and fame;
Still let the poet's strain be heard,
With glory for each second word,
And every thing with breath agree
To praise
"our glorious liberty."
But when the patriot cannon jars
That prison's cold and gloomy wall,
JOHN G. WHITTIER. G. W. PATTEN.
And through its grates the stripes and stars
Rise on the wind and fall-
Think ye that prisoner's agéd ear
Rejoices in the general cheer?
Think ye his dim and failing eye
Is kindled at your pageantry ?
Sorrowing of soul, and chained of limb,
What is your carnival to him?
Down with the law that binds him thus !
Unworthy freemen, let it find
No refuge from the withering curse
Of God and human kind!
Open the prison's living tomb,
And usher from its brooding gloom
The victims of your savage code,
To the free sun and air of God:
No longer dare as crime to brand
The chastening of the Almighty's hand.
62. THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY.
BLAZE, with your serried columns !
I will not bend the knee!
The shackles ne'er again shall bind
The arm which now is free.
I've mailed it with the thunder,
When the tempest muttered low,
And where it falls, ye well may
The lightning of its blow!
I've scared ye in the city,
I've scalped ye on the plain;
Go, count your chosen, where they fell
Beneath my leaden rain!
I scorn your proffered treaty !
The pale-face I defy!
Revenge is stamped upon my spear,
And blood my battle cry!
Some strike for hope of booty,
Some to defend their all,
I battle for the joy I have
To see the white man fall:
I love, among the wounded,
To hear his dying moan,
And catch, while chanting at his side,
The music of his groan.
Ye've trailed me through the forest,
Ye've tracked me o'er the stream;
And struggling through the everglade,
Your bristling bayonets gleam;
But I stand as should the warrior,
With his rifle and his spear;
The scalp of vengeance still is red,
And warns ye-Come not here!
I loathe ye in my bosom,
I scorn ye with mine eye,
And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath,
And fight ye till I die!
I ne'er will ask ye quarter,
And I ne'er will be your slave; But I'll swim the sea of slaughter,
Till I sink beneath its wave!
63. BEAUTY EVERYWHERE.
ADORING Souls some beauty find
In every humble nook,
In every line some glowing thought
Through all of Nature's book;
Enrapt, they hear the Eternal's voice
In thunders of the storm,
They see his Spirit hovering o'er
The mountain's misty form;
They fancy heavenly symphonies
Inspire the nightingale,
They see angelic footprints on
The violets of the vale.
Each moment fleeting past, gives some
New beauty joyous birth,
Some glories of the azure dome
Or iris hues of earth;
The music of the purling rill,
The sweetly slumbering lake,
The wild swan, round whose downy breast
The dashing ripples break,
The skylark's lonely path on high,
Each leaflet's tiny scroll,
Have all its deepest raptures waked
Within the loving soul.
"Tis sweetest solace thus to hear,
Through Nature's canopy,
Unceasing swell the choral strains
In melting harmony
Sent forth from all created things,
In holy stillness breathing
A rapture on the attuned ear,
A story ever wreathing,
Or in the grandeur of the storm,
Or when the dew-drop glistens,
Of teachings fraught with truth divine
To every one that listens.
OUR country! lovely are her hills,
And peaceful are her vales,
Wealth flows where'er her yeoman tills,
Health freights her balmy gales.
Her gallant tars sail o'er the seas
And visit every strand,
Her banner floats on every breeze,
Her praise o'er every land.
Where famine reigns, or kings oppress,
She sends her kind relief,
She soothes the orphan's sore distress,
And stills the widow's grief.
Our country! hallowed be the name—
Courageous were our sires,—
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