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For he lifted his head,
With a sorrowful look,
When the spirit fled,
And the temple shook,
Forgetful of all that were nearest;
And he thought of his home
O'er the ocean foam;
And call'd upon them that were dearest;
The mother and the blue-eyed child,*
Far, far away,
And all that in his morning smiled
When he was innocent as they—
For his loving voice will haunt the place
Of their green repose,
Where'er they may lie interr'd,
Like his own sweet, unseen bird,
That pale and blighted rose:†
But where the warriors of the household lie,
And they that dwelt in minstrelsy,
His voice will sound with a warlike tone,
Like the distant cry
Of trumpets when the wind is high:
Peace to the ancient halls!
Peace to the darken'd walls!
And peace to the troubled family,
For never again shall one of them be
A moment on earth alone,
A spirit, wherever they go,
Shall go for ever before them;
A shelter from every foe,
A guardian hovering o'er them;
For every trace
Of his glorious face
Shall be preserved in the sculptured stone! Embalm'd by Greece,
On every side,
Instinct with immortality—
The last words of Byron related to his wife and child.
In the Giaour.
His rest for aye in the warrior-grave-
His heart in the tomb of the Grecian brave;
His marble head
Enthroned on high, to be
Like the best of her ancient dead,
A sculptured thought of liberty-
A boding forth of Poesy
To wake the youthful ages hence,-
The gifted of Omnipotence.
Up with thy banners! Out with all thy strength
Rock-hearted country of the brave and wise !
Huge fortress of the North! unfurl at length
All thy sharp streamers o'er the flashing skies
Thou that of old, if but a shadow fell-
The shadow only of a coming foe,
Athwart thy bulwarks-heard the stormy swell
Of countless armies gathering below
Thy deep foundations; all thy ancient woods
Upwaking with a heavy solemn roar,
Thy rocks, thy rivers and thy solitudes,
And the great sea that broke upon thy shore,
Out-thundering to the nations! with the noise
Of strange artillery in the earth and sky,
Chariots and horsemen, such as God employs,
When he would startle to new energy
The o'ertired Universe. Up with thee now !
Child of the North-New England-Up and heave
Thy sumptuous drapery to the wind! Thy brow
Begirt with adamant, lay bare; and leave
The lurid panoply of death; and go
Forth like the mightiest and the best of them
Who, if they move to grapple with a foe,
Put on a snowy robe-a diadem
Of triple stars. Up with thee, in thy grave
And awful beauty! Let the nations hear
The language of endurance from the brave;
The song of peace from such as know not fear.
Shall War prevail for ever? Must we be
For ever and for ever bound to wage,
Like the devouring creatures of the sea,
Unceasing battle for our heritage?
Are we to sleep in armor? To lie down
With lighted thunderbolts, year after year,
Lest they who saw their monarch vail his crown
At our approach of old, may venture near?
What though a fourth of thy brave empire now
Is put upon the casting of a die?
The land our fathers bled for-that which Thou
Regardest as a portion of the sky—
And justly too. What though thy outstretch'd hands
Are vast and powerful? Thy rocky earth,
Rough though it be, more precious than the lands
That burn with gold and gems? Of greater worth
To thy stout people, Country of the free!
Than if thy waters rang o'er beds of pearls,
Flashing and sounding with the great high sea,-
Or when their wrath was up-in drifts and whirls
Threw diamonds-rubies-lumps of light ashore;
The wealth of India, or the glorious coil
Of shipwreck'd empires freighted with the store
Of gone-by ages-founder'd with their spoil.
From the four quarters of our strength, are we
To keep for ever thundering, night and day?
Will nothing do but warfare? Must we be
Arm'd to the teeth for ever? arm'd to slay?
Are the proud creatures of our soil-our youth,
Our fruitage and our hope-are they to go
Not reasoning as they ought with words of truth,
Along the way of life, but arin'd as though
The brave and beauteous earth whereon they tread, Were fashion'd by the Builder of the Skies,
Not for his living Image, but the dead-
A place for slaughter and for sacrifice;
The Golgotha of nations. Must they be
Bred up to butchery from their earliest breath?
Made to believe that they are serving thee,
Our Father! when they sweep a storm of death,
O'er portions of thy goodliest heritage,
Tearing a path to empire-laying bare The Vineyards of the world, age after age, Or clamoring with ten thousand trumpets where
The shadowy monsters of the Great Deep dwell,
With star-drift-fire-and shapes magnificent,
Creatures that watch thy roaring citadel-
The broad black sea-the sun-dropp'd firmament.
Father of men! Jehovah! What are they,
The rulers of the earth, that they should dare,
To set aside thy law-to bid man slay
Where thou, their God, hast told him to forbear?
New England, rouse thee from thy heavy sleep! Storehouse of nations-Lighted of the skyGreat northern hive-Long cherish'd of the deepMother of States! To thee we turn our eye!
Up with thy heart in prayer, and cry aloud
Peace to the Nations; to our Borders peace!
Why roll your banners like a thunder-cloud,
O'er sky and earth for ever? Let war cease!
Let our brave Country lift her arms and swear
By Him that dwelleth in eternity,
That henceforth and for ever she will wear
About her warrior brow, the flowering olive-tree!
Or New York, wrote a volume of poems, published in 1814.
Now far advanced had pass'd the second day,
And fainter shone the sun's declining ray,
When Austin's walk approach'd a gloomy pile.
Large was the structure and of antique style—
Two oaks before the white impalement grew,
Which far around a circling umbrage threw
Poultry at nightly lodging here would stay,
And work was done beneath their boughs by day.
Beneath one's shade a draw-knife's horse was stood,
And many a tool was made of useful wood;
Here many a youngster whistled in his cheer,
For oft was rake, hoe, scythe, new-handled here-
Its fellow oak unto the sight display'd
Full many a piece of season'd wood uplaid,
For cart, helve, sled, reserved in squared style,
And future use, arose the goodly pile.
An oval pond spread near the white impale,
Its muddled surface to the curling gale;
'Twas here the gander march'd in noisy pride,
And led his mate and young ones to the tide,
The clamorous geese oft sail'd the troubled pool,
And tribes of goslings here repair'd to cool—
Here duck and drake with all their numerous throng,
Quack'd in right gleeful cheer, and swam along.
To the large edifice young Lovegrace drew,
Which he some wealthy farmer's mansion knew.
An arch'd large porch projecting rose before,
Secured by outer and with inner door,
Above two rows of light in order show,
Which round the entrance feeble day-light throw;
On either side led up the front of stone,
Two wild grape vines long since transplanted grown.
The town Arcadia situate near the waves, Whose yellow sands a stream of commerce laves,