THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 57 Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest; Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away; . But, as tenderly before him, the lorn Ximena knelt, She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt. 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? died! "A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth, Look forth once more, Ximena ! "Like a cloud before the wind Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death be hind; 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 flowers; From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer, And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air! DEMOCRACY. "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, Breaker of Slavery's chain and rod, Beautiful yet thy temples rise, Though there profaning gifts are thrown; Are glaring round thy altar-stone. Still sacred, though thy name be breathed By those whose hearts thy truth deride; DEMOCRACY. O, ideal of my boyhood's time! The faith in which my father stood, Even when the sons of Lust and Crime Had stained thy peaceful courts with blood! Still to those courts my footsteps turn, For, through the mists which darken there, I see the flame of Freedom burn, The Kebla of the patriot's prayer! The generous feeling, pure and warm, Beneath thy broad, impartial eye, How fade the lines of caste and birth! How equal in their suffering lie 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 In prince or peasant slave or lord Through all disguise, form, place, or name, Through poverty and squalid shame, On man, as man, retaining yet, Howe'er debased, and soiled, and dim, The crown upon his forehead set, The immortal gift of God to him. 59 And there is reverence in thy look; 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, Thy mission to a world of woe. That voice's echo hath not died! Thy name and watchword o'er this land Not to these altars of a day, At party's call, my gift I bring; But on thy olden shrine I lay 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. 61 THY WILL BE DONE. WE 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, Thy will be done! And if, in our unworthiness, Thy sacrificial wine we press; If from Thy ordeal's heated bars Our feet are seamed with crimson scars, If, for the age to come, this hour Of trial hath vicarious power, |