They, that have done this deed, are honorable;
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,
That made them do it; they were wise and honorable
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts;
I am no orator, as Brutus is:
But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,
That love my friend and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him.
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men's blood: I only speak right on:
I tell you that, which you yourselves do know :
Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor, dumb mouths,
And bid them speak for me: But were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, then were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Cæsar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
THE blood that flowed at Lexington, and crimsoned bright Champlain,
Streams still along the Southern Gulf, and by the lakes of Maine;
It flows in veins that swell above Pacific's golden sand And throbs in hearts that love and grieve by the dark Atlantic's strand.
It binds in one vast brotherhood the trapper of the West, With men whose cities glass themselves in Erie's classic breast;
And those to whom September brings the fireside's social hours, With those who see December's brow enwreathed with gorgeous flowers !
From where Columbia laughs to meet the smiling western wave, To where Potomac sighs beside the patriot hero's grave;
And from the steaming everglades to Huron's lordly flood, The glory of a nation's Past thrills through a kindred blood!
Say, can the South sell out her share in Bunker's gory height,
Or can the North give up her boast of Yorktown's closing fight?
Can ye divide with equal hand a heritage of graves,
Or rend in twain the starry flag that o'er them proudly waves?
Can ye cast lots for Vernon's soil, or chaffer 'mid the gloom That hangs its solemn folds about your common Father's tomb?
Or could you meet around his grave as fratricidal foes,
And wake your burning curses o'er his pure and calm repose?
YE DARE NOT! is the Alleghanian thunder-toned decree: 'Tis echoed where Nevada guards the blue and tranquil sea; Where tropic waves delighted clasp our flowery Southern shore,
And where, through frowning mountain gates, Nebraska's waters roar !
XXXIV. THE BANNER OF MURAT.
FOREMOST among the first,
And bravest of the brave!
Where'er the battle's fury burst,
Or roll'd its purple wave,
There flashed his glance, like a meteor,
As he charged the foe afar;
And the snowy plume his helmet bore
Was the banner of Murat!
Mingler on many a field
Where rung wild Victory's peal!
That fearless spirit was like a shield-
A panoply of steel;
For very joy in a glorious name
He rush'd where danger stood;
And that banner-plume, like a winged flame,
Stream'd o'er the field of blood'
His followers loved to gaze
On his form with a fierce delight,
As it tower'd above the battle's blaze,
A pillar 'midst the fight;
And eyes look'd up, ere they closed in death,
Through the thick and sulphury air—
And lips shriek'd out with their parting breath,
"The lily plume is there!"
A cloud is o'er him now
For the peril-hour hath come
And he stands with his high, unshaded brow
On the fearful spot of doom!
Away! no screen for a soldier's eye—
No fear his soul appals:
A rattling peal, and a shuddering cry,
And bannerless he falls!
XXXV. THE PRISONER FOR DEBT.
Look on him-through his dungeon grate,
Feebly and cold, the morning light
Comes stealing round him, dim and late,
As if 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.
What has the gray-hair'd prisoner done?
Has murder stain'd his hands with gore?
Not so his crime's a fouler one:
God made the old man poor!
For this he shares a felon's cell-
The fittest earthly type of hell!
For this the boon for which he pour'd
His young blood on the invader's sword,
And counted light the fearful cost—
His blood-gain'd liberty is lost!
And so, for such a place of rest,
Old prisoner, pour'd 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 uprear'd 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 boasted eloquence declaim
Of honor, liberty, and fame;
Still let the poet's strain be heard,
With "glory" for each second word,
And everything with breath agree
To praise "our glorious liberty!"
And when the patriot cannon jars
The prison's cold and gloomy wall,
And through its grates the stripes and stars
Rise on the wind, and fall—
Think ye that prisoner's aged ear
Rejoices in the general cheer?
Think ye his dim and failing eye
Is kindled at your pageantry?
Sorrowing of soul, and chain'd of limb,
What is your carnival to him?
To him who, in the love of Nature, holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language. For his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware.
When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ;-
Go forth into the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around-
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—
Comes a still voice :—yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course. Nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon.
The oak
Shall send his roots abroad and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thy eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone,-nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills,
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun; the vales,
Stretching in pensive quietness between ;
|