« السابقةمتابعة »
THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA.
Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest;
Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay,
With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head;
And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again.
Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and faintly smiled:
Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch beside her child?
"A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth,
From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, in the North!" Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead, And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled.
Look forth once more, Ximena ! "Like a cloud before the wind Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind;
Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded strive ; Hide your faces, holy angels! O, thou Christ of God, forgive!”
Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall;
Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all! Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled, In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold. ·
But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food;
Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung, And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue.
Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours ;
Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden
From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer, And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air!
"All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.”. - Matthew vii. 12.
EARER of Freedom's holy light,
Or wounds the generous ear of God!
Beautiful yet thy temples rise,
Though there profaning gifts are thrown;
Are glaring round thy altar-stone.
though thy name be breathed
O, ideal of my boyhood's time!
The faith in which my father stood,
Still to those courts my footsteps turn,
The Kebla of the patriot's prayer!
The generous feeling, pure and warm,
Beneath thy broad, impartial eye,
The groaning multitudes of earth!
Still to a stricken brother true,
Whatever clime hath nurtured him; As stooped to heal the wounded Jew The worshipper of Gerizim.
By misery unrepelled, unawed
By pomp or power, thou see'st a MAN
Through all disguise, form, place, or name,
On man, as man, retaining yet,
Howe'er debased, and soiled, and dim,
And there is reverence in thy look;
For that frail form which mortals wear
And veiled his perfect brightness there.
Not from the shallow babbling fount
Thrilled, warmed, by turns, the listener's heart,
In holy words which cannot die,
In thoughts which angels leaned to know,
That voice's echo hath not died!
It calls a struggling world to thee.
Thy name and watchword o'er this land
Not to these altars of a day,
At party's call, my gift I bring;
A freeman's dearest offering:
The voiceless utterance of his will,
His pledge to Freedom and to Truth,
Election Day, 1843.
THY WILL BE DONE.
THY WILL BE DONE.
E see not, know not; all our way
The flesh may fail, the heart may faint,
We take with solemn thankfulness
Though dim as yet in tint and line,
And if, in our unworthiness,
Our feet are seamed with crimson scars,
If, for the age to come, this hour