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There's firmness in its even light,
That augurs of a breast sincere ; And, oh! take watch how ye excite
That firmness till it yield a tear. Some bosoms give an easy sigh,
Some drops of grief will freely start; But that which sears the quiet eye
Hath its deep fountain in the heart.
SONG OF THE HEMPSEED.
Ar, scatter me well, 'tis a moist spring day,
When the rains have dropp'd and the winds
With my fine threads curl'd in serpent length, And the fire-wrought chain, and the lion's thick
Shall be rivall'd by me in mighty strength. I have many a place in the busy world,
Of triumph and fear, of sorrow and joy; I carry the freeman's flag unfurl'd,
I am link'd to childhood's darling toy. Then scatter me wide, and hackle me well, For a varied tale can the hempseed tell.
The sunshine falls on a new-made grave?
The funeral train is long and sad;
I shall be there to lower him down
Man shall carefully gather me up,
His hand shall rule and my form shall change, I shall be there, the work to share,
To guard his feet, and cradle his head.
Nor into aught that is "rich and strange."
Flung aside with the bleaching skull,
Bravely I swing in the anchor ring
Where the foot of the proud man cometh not,
When the huge ship takes her rocking rest;
Where the gallant sea-hearts cling about,
Putting their faith in the cordage stout.
I am true when the blast sways the giant mast,
I abide with the bark, in the day and the dark,
Oh, a terrible thing does the hempseed seem
Sons of evil, bad and bold,
Madly ye live and little ye reck,
Ready to hug your felon neck.
Yet when does the halter hitch or break?
But what think ye of me, 'neath the gibbet-tree,
The people rejoice, the banners are spread;
From trellis'd porch and gothic wall;
Gaily they laugh when I am found,
Till the sexton has done, and the grave is full. Back to the gloomy vault I'm borne,
Leaving coffin and nail to crumble and rust, There I am laid with the mattock and spade,
Moisten'd with tears and clogg'd with dust: Oh, the hempseed cometh in doleful shape, With the mourner's cloak and sable crape.
Harvest shall spread with its glittering wheat;
The barn shall be open'd, the stack shall be piled; Ye shall see the ripe grain shining out from the wain, And the berry-stain'd arms of the gleaner-child. Heap on, heap on, till the wagon-ribs creak,
Let the sheaves go towering to the sky, Up with the shock till the broad wheels rock, Fear not to carry the rich freight high. For I will infold the tottering gold,
I will fetter the rolling load;
Not an ear shall escape my binding hold,
My threads are set in the heaving net,
While he whistles a tune to the lonely moon,
Round and round I steadily twist,
And bring from the cell of the deep old well
On ocean and earth I'm a goodly thing,
I serve from the play-ground to the grave. I have many a place in the busy world,
Of triumph and fear, of sorrow and joy ;
And am link'd to childhood's darling toy:
He saved his land, but did not lay
Fame was too earnest in her joy-
England, my heart is truly thine-
But did I meet such adverse lot,
OUR NATIVE SONG.
OUR native song! our native song!
Oh! where is he who loves it not? The spell it holds is deep and strong,
Where'er we go, whate'er our lot. Let other music greet our ear
With thrilling fire or dulcet tone; We speak to praise, we pause to hear,
But yet-oh! yet-'t is not our own! The anthem chant, the ballad wild,
The notes that we remember longThe theme we sung with lisping tongue"Tis this we love our native song!
MR. SIMMONS has been several years a contributor to Blackwood's Magazine, and in
THE DISINTERMENT. LOST Lord of Song! who grandly gave Thy matchless timbrel for the spear— And, by old Hellas' hallow'd wave
Died at the feet of Freedom-hear! Hear-from thy lone and lowly tomb,
Where mid thy own "inviolate Isle," Beneath no minster's marble gloom,
No banner's golden smile,
Far from the swarming city's crowd,
1843 he published a volume of poems entitled Legends and Lyrics.
The giant waste of waveless tide
Whose folds in thickest gloom unfurl'd,
Each ray of heaven's high face debar,
At once ring bold and sharply clear,
The nations, with a voice as dread
That look that, where its anger fell,
By the blue Danube's stately wave-
And built and barr'd his coffin down,
'Tis morn- -the marble floor is cleft,
Shall form the theme of harp and song,
And sick from victory's vulgar war,
And dash thee from thy car,
"Tis done-his chiefs are lifting now
Raise That silken cloud, what meets the gaze? The scanty dust, or whitening bones, Or fleshless jaws' horrific mirth,
SOUND to the sun thy solemn joy for ever!
Roll forth the enormous gladness of thy waves, Mid boundless bloom, thou bright majestic river,
Worthy the giant land thy current laves! Each bend of beauty, from the stooping cliff, Whose shade is dotted by the fisher's skiff,From rocks embattled, that, abrupt and tall, Heave their bulk skyward like a castle-wall, And hem thee in, until the Rapids hoarse Split the huge marble with an earthquake's force, To where thy waves are sweet with summer scents, Flung from the Highland's softer lineamentsEach lovelier change thy broadening billows take, Now sweeping on, now like some mighty lake, Stretching away where evening-tinted isles Woo thee to linger mid their rosy smiles
The lonely cove-the village-humming hill-
Yet well his boyhood's earnest hours adored.
Painting the life thy forest-shadows knew, What time the settlers, crowding o'er the ocean, Spread their white sails along thy waters blue. Theirs were the hearts true liberty bestows
The valour that adventure lights in men; And in their children still the metal glows,
As well can witness each resounding glen Of the fair scene, whose mellow colours shine
Beneath the splendour of yon evening orb, That sinks serene as WASHINGTON's decline, Whose memory here should meaner thoughts
Here rose the ramparts, never rear'd in vain
DEATH-CHANT FOR THE SULTAN MAHMOUD.
RAISE the song to the mighty, whose glory shall die When the moon of his empire has dropp'd from the
sky; And if wail be awaken'd for him who smote down Grim bigotry's Moloch, guilt's bloody renown,
Be it lost in the trumpet's magnificent wo,
Mow'd down beneath cannon and carbine they fell. Raise the song to the mighty! high Mahmoud, whose stroke
In a moment the fetters of centuries broke!
First launch'd for his nation,
When the press mid the curses of fanatics rose. Hu Allahu Alla! the blest caravan
Is in sight from Damascus, and Mecca is wanSheik and Imam are trembling with terror and awe, For this Cadmus of Caliphs has laugh'd at the law: Fair painting must sully the Prophet's proud tomb, For Athenè, not loth,
Has left Greece to the Goth,
And planted her arts-shading olive in Roum.
In vain, Ghazi-Sultaun! when Pera's sweet shore
When thy spirit imparts
Its grandeur, thy horse-tails may flap over men.
With Azrel, the angel unsparing, is gone! While round his shrunk borders the thunder was growling,
And the Muscovite wolves thickly herded were howling,
And snuffing the gales that, refreshingly cool,
Where, bulwark'd in gold, blush the brides of Stainboul.
Sound the trump for the mighty! he died ere the tramp
Of the terror-horsed Tartar who dash'd from the camp Stay'd his soul with the tale that his dastardly hordes Lay reap'd upon Nekshib, where sickles were swords!
And the lords of the spear's haughty kingdom has
To the Rebel and Hun!
And the death-song is done:
But thy praise shall not perish, lost Mahmoud the