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Scattering the misty phalanx like a wand,
Glancing o'er mountain tops, and shining down
In broken masses on the astonish'd plains.
The fever'd cattle group in wondering herds;
The weary birds go to their leafy nests,
But find no darkness there, and wander forth
On feeble, fluttering wing, to find a rest;
The parch'd, baked earth, undamp'd by usual dews,
Has gaped and crack'd, and heat, dry, mid-day heat,
Comes like a drunkard's breath upon the heart.
On with thy armies, Joshua! The Lord
God of Sabaoth is the avenger now!
His voice is in the thunder, and his wrath
Poureth the beams of the retarded sun,
With the keen strength of arrows, on their sight.
The unwearied sun rides in the zenith sky;
Nature, obedient to her Maker's voice,
Stops in full course all her mysterious wheels.
On! till avenging swords have drunk the blood
Of all Jehovah's enemies, and till
Thy banners in returning triumph wave;
Then yonder orb shall set 'mid golden clouds,
And, while a dewy rain falls soft on earth,
Show in the heavens the glorious bow of God,
Shining, the rainbow banner of the skies.
Or Boston. He was the editor of The Bachelor's Journal. He is now a lawyer.
THEY died-the young-the loved, the brave,
The death barge came for them.
And where the seas yon crag rocks lave
Their nightly requiem,
They buried them all, and threw the sand
Unhallow'dly o'er that patriot band.
The black ship, like a demon sate,
Upon the prowling deep;
From her, came fearful sounds of hate,
Till pain still'd all in sleep-
It was the sleep that victims take,
Tied, tortured, dying, at the stake.
Yet some, the deep has now updug,
Their bones are in the sun;
And whether by sword, or deadly drug,
They died-yes-one by one.
Was it not strange to mortal eye,
To see them all so strangely die?
No death upon the field was theirs,
No war-peal o'er their graves,
They who were born as Freedom's heirs,
Were stabb'd like traitor slaves.
Their patriot hearts were doom'd to feel
Dishonor-with the victor's steel.
There come upon the stilly eve,
Wild songs from yon wild shore;
And then the surges more wildly heave
Their hoarse and growling roar,
When dead men sing unearthly glees,
And shout in laughing revelries.
The corpse-light shines, like some pale star,
From out the dead men's cliff;
And the sea nymphs sail in their coral car,
With those that are cold and stiff.
And they sail near the spot of treachery, where
The tide has left the dark ship bare.
Are they those ancient ones, who died
For freedom, and for me?
They are-they point in martyr'd pride,
To that spot upon the sea,
From whence came once the dying yell,
From out that wreck-that prison'd hell.
Hark! hear their chant-it starts the hair
It makes the blood turn cold;
"T would make the tiger forsake his lair,
The miser leave his gold.
And see yon harper! he doth try
A dead man's note of melody.
Soundly sleep we in the day,
And yet we trip it nightly,
We sail with the nymphs around each bay,
When the moon peers out most brightly.
And we chase our foes to their distant graves,
For they, like us, are sleeping;
But they dare not come o'er our bonny waves,
For our nightly watch we're keeping.
Our spectres visit their foreign homes,
And pluck right merrily
Their bones which whiten within their tombs,
And plant them here, aye, cheerily,-
For cheerily then we dance and sing,
With our spectre band around them,
And the curse and the laugh of scorn we fling,
As we tell where our shadows found them.
And then we go to the rotting wreck,
Where we drank the cup of poison,
We laugh and we quaff upon her deck,
Till morn comes up the horizon.
But skip ye, skip ye, beneath the cliff,
For the sun comes up like a fiery skiff,
Ploughing the waves of yon blue sky—
Hie-laughing spectres, to your homes, haste-hie.
Is a native of Connecticut, and now a resident of the city of New York. He received a degree at Yale College in 1825. He is the author of some descriptive poetry of much graphic truth and freshness.
THOU beautiful, romantic Dell!
Thy banks of hemlock highlands swell,
Like huge sea billows, o'er the isles
Round which the branching river smiles.
Look up! how sombre and how vast
The shadows those dark mountains cast,
Making noon twilight; or, look down
The giddy depths, so steep and brown,
Where claret waters foam and play
A tinkling tune, then dance away.
Oft, with my oak leaf basket green,
On summer holidays serene,
Along your hill-sides have I stray'd,
And, on the ground, all scarlet made,
Pick'd in full stems, as low I kneel'd,
Strawberries, rubies of the field,
Coming late home; or, in the flood,
Cool'd the warm current of my blood;
While swam the house-dog after me,
With long red tongue lapt out in glee.
'Tis glorious, here, at breaking day,
To watch the orient clouds of gray
Blush crimson, as the yellow sun
Walks up to take his purple throne,
And melts to snowy mists the dew
That kiss'd, all night, each blossom's hue,
Till, like a tumbling ocean spread,
They hide low vale and tall cliff's head,
And many a tree's fantastic form
Looks like some toss'd ship in a storm.
How still the scene! yet, here war's hum
Once echoed wildly from the drum,
When waved the lily flower's gay bloom
O'er glittering troops with sword and plume,
Who, on the clover meadows round,
Their white tents pitch'd, while music's sound,
From horn and cymbal, play'd some strain
* This is a wild and picturesque pass of the Housatonic, about twenty miles from its mouth, near the pleasant village of Newtown, Connecticut.
That oft had charm'd the banks of Seine,
And village girls came down to dance,
At evening with the youths of France.
Fair was the hour, secluded Dell!
When last I taught my listening shell
Sweet notes of thee. The bright moon shone,
As, on the shore, I mused alone,
And frosted rocks, and streams, and tree,
With rays that beam'd, like eyes, on me.
A silver robe the mountains hung,
A silver song the waters sung,
And many a pine was heard to quiver,
Along my own blue flowing river.
THE FALLS OF THE HOUSATONICK.
Wild cataract of woods! how bright
Thy sheet of liquid silver gleams,
Through the green cedars, on my sight,
Like a tall angel's spear in dreams.
And see the snowy wreath of spray,
Meet for a spotless virgin's shroud,
Curl up the clear blue vault away
To form the future tempest-cloud.
Through mountain shores, with red and gold
Leaves, at this autumn hour, array'd,
Winds the swift river, dark and bold,
O'er rocks in many a white cascade.
Till sweeping past, 'mid froth and surge,
The alder islets strown around,
To where the willows kiss thy verge,
Thou dashest off at one wild bound!
Here, as we gaze-I and my friend,
Two youths with roses on our cheeks,
'Tis sweet, but awful, thus to bend
Over the wonder, as it speaks
Like a young earthquake, and to feel
A nameless grandeur swell the soul
With joy that makes the senses reel,
Half-wishing in the flood to roll!