Add not to their heavy burden,
Add not to corroding care.
Speak not harshly, was the precept
Which to man the Saviour taught ;—
May that precept ever guide us
Gentle words will cost us naught.
149. THE DEATH OF MAJOR RINGGOLD.
THEY bore him from the battle-field
And clash of arms away;
Extended on a lowly couch,
The dying hero lay.
The life-blood issues from the wound
All human aid is vain ;
A faithful band in silence weeps
Their brave commander slain.
Through foemen's ranks he proudly rode,
They marked his lofty brow;
His keen dark eye had defiance flashed;-
But oh! he has fallen now.
He beckoned to one who near him stood-
Leaned his head on his friendly breast,
And then in accents weak and low,
These words to him addressed.
"I know that life is ebbing fast;
All, all will soon be o'er;-
My Country! I have fought for thee,
But I fight for thee no more.
"And when these eyes in death are closed,
And tolls my funeral knell,
To Cadwal'der and his brave corps,
Bear thou my last farewell."
150. THE DEATH OF COLONEL CLAY.
Lo! on the bloodstained battle-field
A wounded hero lying!
Dim is the lustre of his eye-
For he, alas! is dying.
See how with feeble hand he grasps
The sword so faithful ever!
Now drops the weapon by his side,
To be resumed-no, never.
Oh, gallant Clay! though for thy brow
Its laurels fame is wreathing,-
Vain trophies these, thy bosom now
Its last faint sigh is heaving.
Back! tyrants! would ye deeper make
The wounds already given?
You from an agéd father's heart
Another tie have riven.
Intrepid Warrior! thou hast left
A deathless name behind thee;
That name unsullied, bright shall shine,
Though the dark grave may hide thee.
Thou by thy General's side hast fought.
And Taylor will deplore thee;
And many a heart that loved thee dear
Will weep in silence o'er thee.
HAIL, Son of Columbia! the patriot flame
Burns bright in each breast while we tell of thy fame;
We have heard of the deeds thou so nobly hast done,
We have heard of thy battles so fearlessly won.
Thou hast carried our flag to a far distant shore;
See! it streams from the towers of Juan d'Ulloa;
And the eagle hath perched on those battlements high,
To rest in his course through the blue vaulted sky.
When the war-cloud hung dark, 'twas thy voice that inspired,
And the hearts of thy soldiers with energy fired;
The foremost in battle, the fearless in fight,
While thy sword in the sunbeam was glittering bright.
In the halls of Mont'zuma now revel the brave,
"Tis thine arm that hath conquered the Mexican slave;
Thou hast buried thy sword in the enemy's breast,
They quailed at thy glance--thou hast laid them at rest.
A prey to the vultures that thirsted for gore,
They fell by the town of St. Juan d'Ulloa;
And the raven's wild screech will their requiem be,
While around them is floating the flag of the free.
The bugle is hushed, and the cannon's loud roar
Shall wake thee from slumber to battle no more;
Thy hand we now grasp, and we hail thee with pride,
As we would all the heroes who fought by thy side.
Yes, welcome, thrice welcome, again and again !
With transport unbounded we echo the strain;
Thy triumphs so glorious shall ne'er be forgot―
Hurrah for the patriot General Scott!
A WAIL is in the Capitol,
A wail of anguish deep,
That startles with a fearful sound
The night wind from its sleep.
The brave old oak hath bowed its head,
A victim to the blast;
Death holds within his conquering arm
The conqueror at last.
There's mourning in the Capitol :
With slow and solemn tread,
Go hang with weeds of cypress now
The chambers of the dead.
Ye may not speak at such a time,
But gaze in mute despair;
Ye would but mock those weeping ones
Who kneel heart-broken there.
A gloom is in the Capitol,
And like a dismal pall,
It must, with melancholy hue,
On the whole nation fall.
For she will see the radiant gem
Which she so proudly wore,
Drop from her brilliant coronet,
To sparkle there no more.
Oh! Taylor! thou hast nobly won
A hero's deathless name;
But what to thee are titles now ?-
What honor, rank, or fame?
Where thou didst raise thy country's flag,
In triumph it shall wave;
But all thy glorious deeds must end
Untimely in the grave.
'Tis sweet to think that with thine own
Was breathed thy latest sigh;
What comfort in thy parting words-
"I am prepared to die."
The storms of battle thou hast braved,
And many a conflict passed;
Now peaceful in thy native land
Thine eyes are closed at last.
A warning from the Capitol,
A deep sepulchral sound!
List to the mournful requiem
With solemn awe profound.
Nor let the turbid, restless tide
Of party feeling flow;
He was a Nation's President,
Be ours a Nation's woe.
(A "Song of the Nation" in the late Irish rebellion.)
LET Britain boast her British hosts,
About them all right little care we;
Not British seas nor British coasts
Can match The Man of Tipperary!
Tall is his form, his heart is warm,
His spirit light as any fairy-
His wrath is fearful as the storm
That sweeps The Hills of Tipperary!
Lead him to fight for native land,
His is no courage cold and wary;
The troops live not on earth would stand
The headlong Charge of Tipperary!
Yet meet him in his cabin rude,
Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary,
You'd swear they knew no other mood
But Mirth and Love in Tipperary!
You're free to share his scanty meal,
His plighted word he'll never vary :
In vain they tried with gold and steel
To shake The Faith of Tipperary!
Let Britain, too, her banner brag,
We'll lift The Green more proud and airy, Be mine the lot to bear that flag,
And head The Men of Tipperary!
Though Britain boasts her British hosts,
About them all right little care we—
Give us, to guard our native coasts,
The Matchless Men of Tipperary!
154. THE VOW OF TIPPERARY.
(A "Song of the Nation" in the late Irish rebellion.)
FROM Carrick streets to Shannon shore,
From Slievenamon to Ballindeary,
From Longford Pass to Galtymore,
Come hear The Vow of Tipperary.
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