And, noble Earl, receive my hand." â â
But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke : â
" My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still
Be open to my sovereign's will, .
To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer,
My castles are my king's alone.
From turret to lijundation stone â
The hand of Douglas is his own ;
And never shall in i'riendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp."
Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire.
And â " This to me I" he said, â
" An 'twere not for thy hoary head.
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
To cleave the Douglas' head I
And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer,
He, who does England's message here.
Although the meanest in her state.
May M'ell, proud Angus, be thy mate :
And, Douglas, more, I tell thee here,
Even in thy pitch of pride,
Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near,
(Nay, never look upon your lord,
And lay your hands upon your sword,)
I tell thee, thou 'rt defied I
And if thou said'st I am not peer,
To any lord in Scotland here.
Lowland, or Highland, far or near,
Lord Angus, thou hast lied I"
"to arms." 873
On the earl's cheek the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashy hue of age :
Fierce he broke forth : â " And dar'st thou then
To beard the liou in his den,
The Douglas in his hall ?
And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go ?
No, by Saint Bryde of Bothwell, no ' â
Up drawbridge, grooms â what, Warder ho .
Let the portculHs fall."
Lord Marmion turned, â well was his need,
And dashed the rowels in his stee<l.
Like arrow through the archway sprung,
The ponderous gate behind him rung :
To pass there was such scanty room.
The bars, descending, razed his plume.
XXXVIILâ A DEATH BED.
Her suflering ended with the day,
Yet lived she at its close.
And breathed the long, long night away,
In statue-like repose.
But when the sun, in all its state,
Illumed the eastern skies,
She pass'd through Glory's morning-gate,
And walked in Paradise I
XXXIX.â "TO ARMS."
Awake I arise, ye men of might I
The glorious hour iÂ»nigh, â
Your eagle pauses in his flight,
And screams liis battle-cry.
From North to South, from East to West ;
Send back an answering cheer,
374 THE BOOK OF ELOQLiENCE.
And say farewell to peace and rest,
And banish doubt and fear.
Arm ! arm ! your country bids you arm !
Fling out your banners free â
Let drum and trumpet sound alarm,
O'er mountains, plain and sea.
March onward from th' Atlantic shore,
To Rio Grande's tide â
Fight as your fathers fought of yore !
Die as your fathers died !
Go ! vindicate your .ountry's fame,
Avenge your country's wrong !
The sons should own a deathless name,
To whom such sires belong.
The kindred of the noble dead
As noble deeds should dare :
The fields whereon their blood was shed,
A deeper stain must bear.
To arms ! to arms ! ye men of might ;
Away from home, away I
The first and foremost in the fight
Are sure to win the day !
XL.â A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
Where are the birds that sang
A hundred years ago ?
The flowers that all in beauty sprang
A hundred years ago ? â
The lips that smiled,
The eyes that wild
In flashes sh'one
Soft eyes upon â
Where, where are lips and eyes,
The maiden's smile, the lover's sigh.
That were, so long ago ?
THE COLD WATER-MAX. 375
Who peopled all the city's street
A huu(ired years ago ?
Who filled the church with faces meek,
A hundred years ago?
The sneering tale
Of sister frail,
The plot that work'd-
Another's hurt â
Where, where, are plots and srieers,
The poor man's hopes, the rich man's fears.
That were~so long ago ?
Where are the graves where dead men slept
A hundred years ago ?
Who, whilst living, oft-tim.es wept,
A hundred years ago ?
By other men
They knew not then
Their lands are tilled.
Their homes are filled â
Yet Nuture then was just as gay.
And brigiit the sun shone as to-day,
A hundred years ago !
XLI.â THE COLD WATER-MAN.
It was an honest fisherman
I knew him passing well, â
And he lived by a little pond,
Within a little dell.
For science and for books, he said
He never had a wish, â
No school to him was worth a fig.
Except a school of fish.
A cunning fisherman was he,
liis angles all were right ;
The smallest nibble at his bait
Was sure to prove ' a bite I'
J. a. SAXE.
376 THE BOOK OF ELOQUENCE.
All day this fisherman would sit
Upon ail ancient lo^,
And gaze into the water, like
Home sedentary frog ;
With all the seeming innocence,
And that unconscious look,
That other people often wear
When they intend to ' hook !'
To charm the fish he never spoke, â
Although his voice was fine,
He found the most convenient way
Was just to drop a line I
And many a gudgeon of the pond
If they could speak to-day,
Would own with grief, this angler had
A mighty ' taking way !'
Alas I one day this fisherman
Had taken too much grog.
And being but a landsman, too,
He couldn't ' keep the log I'
'Twas all in vain with might and main
He strove to reach the shore â
Down â down he went to feed the fish
He'd baited oft before !
The moral of this mournful tale,
To all is plain and clear, â
That drinking habits bring a man
Too often to his bier ;
And he who scorns to ' take the pledge,'
And keep the promise fast,
May be, in spite of fate, a stiff
Cold water-man at last I
FUNERAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST. 377
XLILâ A SEA FOG.
When all you see tlirou<rh densest fog is seen ;
"When you can hear the lishers near at hand
Distinclly speak, yet see not where they stand ;
Or sometimes them and not their boat discern,
Or, half" conceaFd, some figure at the stei-n ;
Boys who, on shore, to sea the pehble cast,
Will hear it strike against the viewless mast ;
While the stern boatman growls his fierce disdain,
At whom he knows not, whom he threats in vain.
'Tis pleasant then to view the nets float past,
Net alter net, till you have seen the last ;
And as you wait till all beyond you slip,
A boat comes gliding from an anchored ship,
Breaking tlie silence with the dipping oar.
And their own tones, as laboring lor the shore ;
Those measured tones with which the scene agree.
And give a sadness to serenity.
XLIILâ FUNERAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST.
The castle clock had tolled midnight â
With mattock and with spade,
And silent, by the torches' light.
His corse in earth we laid.
" Peace to the dead" no children sung.
Slow pacing up the nave ;
No prayers were read, no knell was rung,
As deep we dug his grave.
We only beard the winter's wind.
In many a sullen gust,
As o'er the open grave inclined.
We murnmred, " Dust to dust I"
A moonbeam, from the arches' height,
Stream'd as we |Â»aced the stone ;
378 THE BOOK OF ELOQUENCE.
The long aisles started into light,
And all the windows shone.
We thonght we saw the banners then,
That shook along the walls,
While the sad shades of mailed men,
Were gazing from the stalls :
'Tis gone ! again, on tombs defaced,
Sits darkness more profound,
And only, by the torch, we traced
Our shadows on the ground.
And now the chilly, freezing air,
Without, blew long and loud ;
Upon our knees we breathed one prayer
Where he â slept in his shroud.
We laid the broken marble floor â
No name, no trace appears â
And when we closed the sounding door
We thought of him with tears.
XLIV.â THE FOUR ERAS.
The lark has sung his carol in the sky ;
The bees have hummed their noon-tide harmony ;
Still in the vale the village-bells ring round,
Still in Llewellyn hall the jests resound :
For now the caudle-cup is circling there.
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their pray'r.
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.
A few short years â and then these sounds shall hail
The day again, and gladness fill the vale ;
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran.
Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin ;
The ale, now brewed, in floods of amber shine :
THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY. 379
And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze,
'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days,
The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled.
" 'Twas on these knees he sat so oft and smiled."
And soon again shall music swell the breeze ;
Soon issviing Ibrth, shall glilter through the trees
Vestures of nuptial white ; and hymns be sung,
And violets scattered round ; and old and young,
In every cotfage porch, with garlands green.
Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene ;
While, her dark eyes declining, by his side
Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride.
And once, alas, nor in a distant hour,
Another voice shall come from yonder tower ;
When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen,
And weepings heard where only joy has been ;
When by his children borne, and from his door
Slowly departing to return no more,
He rests in holy earth with them that went before.
XLV.â THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY.
G. W. PATTEN.
Blaze, with your serried columns I
I will not bend the knee ;
The shackles ne'er again shall bind
The arm which now is free.
I've mailed it with the thunder.
When the tempest muttered low ;
And when it falls, ye well may dread
The lightning of its blow.
I've scared ye in the city,
I've scalped ye on the plain ;
Go, count your chosen where they fell
Beneath my leaden rain !
I scorn your proffered treaty ;
The pale face I defy ;
Revenge is stamped upon my spear,
And " ULuou I" my batlle-cry.
38(^ THE BOOK OF ELOQUENCE.
YeVe trailed me through the forest,
Ye've tracked me o'er the stream ;
And, struggling through the everglade,
Your bristling bayonets gleam.
But I stand as should the warrior,
With his rifle and his spear ; â
The scalp of vengeance still is red,
And warns ye, " Come not here I"
I loathe ye with my bosom,
I scorn ye with mine eye ;
And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath
And fight ye till 1 die I
I ne'er will ask ye quai-ter,
I ne'er will be your slave ;
But I'll swim the sea of slaughter,
Till I sink beneath the wave.
XLVLâ THE RISING OF THE NORTH.
BRYAN W. PKOCTOa.
Hark â to the sound !
Without a trump, without a drum
The wild-eyed, hungry millions come,
Along the echoing ground.
From cellar and cave, from street and lane,
Each fi-om his separate place of pain,
la a blackened stream,
Come sick, and lame, and old, and poor,
And all who can no more endure ;
Like a demon's dream I
Starved children with their pauper sire,
And laborers with their fronts of fire,
In angry hum.
And felons, hunted to their den.
And all who shnme the name of men.
By millions come.
THE SOLDIER'S TEAR. 381
The good, the bad, come hand in hand,
Link'd by tliat law which none withstand ;
And at their head
Flaps no proud banner, flaunting high,
But a shout â sent upwards to the sky,
Oi^' Bread.'â Bread r
-To-night the poor
(All mad) will burst the rich man's door,
And wine will run
In floods, and rafters blazing bright
Will paint the sky with crimson light
Fierce as the sun ;
And plate carved round with quaint device
And cups all gold will melt, like ice
In Indian heat !
And queenly silks, from foreign lands
Will bear the stamps of bloody hands
And trampling feet :
And murder â from his hideous den
Will come abroad and talk to men,
Till creatures born
For good (whose hearts kind pity nursed)
Will act the direst crimes they cursed â¢
XLVILâ THE SOLDIER'S TEAR.
TUOMAS H. BAYL*
Upom the hill he turn'd
To take a last fond look
Of the valley and the village-church
And the coUage by the brook ;
He listened to the sounds,
So familiar to his ear,
And the soldier leant upon his sword,
And wiued away a tear.
382 THE BOOK OF ELOQUEXC'E.
Beside that cottage porch
A girl was on her knees,
She held aloft a snowy scarf
Which fiutter'd in the breeze ;
She breathed a prayer for him,
A prayer he could not hear,
But he paused to bless her, as she knelt,
And wiped away a tear.
He turn'd and left the spot,
Oh, do not deem him weak ;
For dauntless was the soldier's heart,
Though tears were on his cheek ;
Go watch the foremost rank
In danger's dark career.
Be sure the hand most daring there
Has wiped away a tear.
Shout for the mighty men
Who died along this shore, â
Who died within this mountain's glen ."
For never nobler chieftain's head
Was laid on valor's crimson bed,
Nor ever prouder gore
Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day,
Upon thy strand, Thermopvlse I
Shout for the mighty men.
Who on the Persian tents,
Like lions from their midnight den
Bounding on the slumbering deer,
Rush'd â a storm of" sword and spear â
Like the roused elements, .
Let loose from an immortal hand,
To chasten or to crush a land !
But there are none to hear ;
Greece is a hopeless shive.
Leonidas ! no hand is near
To lift thy fiery falchion now :
No warrior makes the warrior'? /Â«â tr
Upon thy sea-washed grav<.
The voice that should be ra'ssd by m-'A
Must now he given by wa> and glen.
XLIX.â BYF jN.
He touched his harp, and nat'.ons heard, entranced.
As some vast river of unfailing (source,
Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flow'd.
And opeu'd new fountauis in the human heait.
Where fancy halted, wearying in her flight
In other men, his, fresh as morning, rose,
And soar'd untrodden heights, and seemed at home
Where angels bashful look'd. Others, though great
Beneath their argument seem d struffgli'ig whiles ;
He from far descending, stoop'd to touch
The loftiest thought ; and proudly stoop'd, as though
It scarce deserved his verse. With nature's self
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest
^'1 with all her glorious majesty.
._ laia his hand np5ii " the ocean's mane,"
And played familiar with his hoary locks ;
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines,
And with the thunder talk'd, as friend to friend ;
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing,
Which as llie footsteps of the dreadful God,
Marching upon the storm in vengeance seemed :
Then turn'd and with the grassliopper, who su'ig
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed.
384 THE BOOK OF ELOQUENCE.
L.â THE DROWNED MARINER.
E. OAKES SMITH.
A MARINER sat on the shrouds one night,
The wind was piping free ;
Now brijrht, now dinim'd was the moonliirht pale,
And the phospor frleaiii'd in the wake olthe whale,
As it flouiider'd in the sea ;
The scud was flying athwart the sky,
The gathering winds went whistling by, ,.
And the wave, as it tower'd, then fell in spray, ||
Look'd an emerald v/all in the moonlight ray.
Wild the ship rocks, but he swingeth at ease,
And holdeth by the shroud ;
And as she careens to the crowding breeze,
The gaping deep the mariner sees,
And the surging heareth loud.
Was that a face looking up at him ;
With its pallid cheek and its cold eyes dim ?
Did it beckon him elown ? Did it call his name ?
Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came.
The mariner look'd, and he saw with dread,
A face he knew too well ;
And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead.
And its long hair out on the wave was spread, â
Was there a tale to tell ?
The stout ship rock'd with a reelino- ^ueed, â
And the mariner groaned, as wel. -â ;;
For ever down as she plunged on her siae.
The dead face gleam'd from the briny tide
Bethink thee, mariner, well of the past ;
A voice calls loud for thee :
There's a stifled prayer, the first, the last ;
The plunging ship on her beams is cast, â
0, where shall thy burial be ?
Alone in the dark, alone as the wave,
To buffet the storm alone ;
To struggle aghast at thy watery grave.
To struggle, and feel there is none to save !
God shield thee, helpless one !
THE PERI'S BOON. 386
e stout limbs yield, for their strength is past ;
le trembliuii' hands on the deep are cast ;
le white brow gleams a moment more,
hen slowly sinks, â the struggle is o'er.
)own, down where the storm is hush'd to sleep,
Where the sea its dii-ge shall swell ;
*Vhere the amber drops for tliee shall weep,
\.nd the rose-lipp'd shell its music keep ;
There thou shalt slumber well.
The green and the pearl lie heap'd at thy side ;
rhey fell from the neck of the beautiful bride.
From the strong man's hand, from the maiden's brow,
As they slowly sunk to the wave below.
A peopled home is the ocean-bed ;
The mother and child are there:
The fervent youth and the hoary head,
The maid, with her floating locks outspread,
The babe, with its silken hair :
As the water moveth, they lightly sway,
And the tranquil lights on their features play :
And there is each cherish'd and beautiful form,
Away from decay, and away from the storm.
LIâ THE PERI'S BOON.
Downward the peri turns her gaze,
And, through the war-field's bloody haze.
Beholds a youthful warrior stand,
Alone beside his native river, â i
The red blade broken in his hand, |
And the last arrow in his quiver.
"Live," said the conqu'rer, " live to share
The trophies and the crowns I bear."
Silent that youthful warrior stood â -
Silent he pointed to the "flood
All crimson with his country's blood,
Then sent his last remaining dart,
For uiiswei", to th' Invader's heart.
366 THE BOOK OF ELOQUENCE.
False flew tlie shaft, thongli pointed weL ;
The Tyrant lived, the Hero fell 1
Yet mark'd the peri where he lay,
And when the rush of war was past,
Swiftly descending on a ray
Of morning light, she caught the last â
Last glorious drop his heart had shed,
Before his free-born spirit fled !
" Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight,
My welcome gift at the C4ates ol' Light
Though foul are the drops that oft distil *
On tlie field of warfare, blood like this,
For Liberty shed, so holy is.
It would not stain the purest rill.
That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss !
Oh, if there be, on this earthly sphei-e,
A boon, an otiering, heaven holds dear,
'Tis the last libation Liberty draws.
From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!"
LII.â THE BARDS.
T. B. READ.
When the sweet day in silence hath departed,
And twilight comes, with dewy, downcast eyes,-
The glowing spirits of the mighty-hearted
Like stars around me rise. â
Spirits whose voices pour an endless measure,
Exhaustless as the Ibunts of glory are ;
Until my trembling soul, o'erswept with pleasure,
Throbs like a flooded star.
Old Homer's song, in mighty undulations.
Comes surging, ceaseless, up the oblivious main ; â
I hear the rivers from succeeding nations
Go answering down again : â
Hear Virgil's strain in changeful currents startling.
And Tasso's sweeping round through Palestine ;
THE BAUDS. 387
And Dante's deep and solemn river rolling
Through groves of nnidaight pine.
I hear the iron Norseman's numbers ringing
Through frozen Norway, like a herald's horn ;
And like a lark hear glorious Chaucer singing
Away in England's morn.
In Rhenish halls I hear the Pilgrim lover
Weave his wild story to the wailing strings,
'Till the young maiden's eyes are bi'imming over,
Like the sweet cup she brings.
And hear from Scottish hills the soul's unquiet,
Pouring in torrents their perpetual lays,
As their impetuous mountain runnels riot
In the long rainy days : â
The world-wide Shakspeare, the imperial Spenser,
Whose shafts of song o'ertop the angel's seats ; â
While delicate, as from a silver censer,
Float the sweet dreams of Keats !
Nor these alone ; for, through the growing present,
Westward the starry patli oi' Poesy lies â
Her glorious spirit, like the evening crescent.
Comes rounding up the skies.
I see the beauty which her light impartest !
1 hear the masters of our native song I
The gentle-hearted Allston, poet-artist;
And I)ana wild and strong.
And he, whose soul like angel harps combining,
Anthemed the solemn " Voices of the night."
I see fair Zophiel's radiant spirit shining,
Pale intellectual light.
And Brainard, Sands, whose sweet memento mod
Their own songs chime like melancholy bells,
And him who chanted Melanie's sad story
Along the Cascatelles.
388 THE BOOK OF ELOQUENCE.
And Bryant, in his own broad kingdom mildly
Walking by streams, through woods and summer fields ;
And iron-handed Whittier, when he wildly
The fiery falchion wields !
LIILâ DEATH OF ORISKA.
L. H. SIGOUENET.
Who is yon woman in her dark canoe,
Who strangely toward Niagara's fearl'ul gulf
Floats on unmoved ?
Firm and erect she stands,
Clad in such bridal costume as befits
Tlie daughter of a king. Tall, radiant plumes
Wave o'er her forehead, and the scarlet tinge
Of her embroidered mantle, flecked with gold.
Dazzles amid the flood. Scarce heaves her breast,
As though the spirit of that dread abyss,
In terrible sublimffy, had quelled
All thought of earthly things.
Fast by her side
Stands a young, wondering boy, and from his lips,
Half bleached with terror, steals the frequent sound
Of " Mother ! Mother !"
But she answereth not ;
She speaks no more to aught of earth, but pours
To the Great Spirit, fitfully and wild.
The dealh-sQjiig of her people. High it rose
Above the tumult of the tide that bore
The victims to their doom. The boy beheld
The strange, stei-n beauty in his mother's eye,
And held his breath with awe.
Her song grew faint, â â¢
And as the rapids raised their wiiitening heads,
Casting her light oar to the infuriate tide.
She raised him in her arms, and clasped him close.
Then as the boat with arrowy swiftness drove
On toward the uufathomed gulf, and the chill spray
Rose up in blinding showers, he hid his head.
Deep in the bosom that had nurtured him.
With a low, stifled sob.
ANXIE CLAVVILLE. 389
And thus tliey took
Their awful pathway to eternity.
One rip()le on the mighty river's brink.
Just wiien it, shuddering, makes its own dread plunge,
And at the foot of this most dire abyss
One flitting gleam â bright robe â and raven tress â
And feathery coronet â and all was o'er, â
Save the deep thunder of the eternal surge
Sounding their epitaph !
LIV.â AN:!fIE CLAYVILLE.
Very pale lies Annie Clayville ;
Still her forehead, shadow-crowned,
And the watchers hear her saying,
As they softly tread around':
" Go out, reapers, for the hill-tops
Twiidcle with the sunmier's heat ;
Lay out with your swinging cradles
Golden furrows of ripe wheat I
While the little laughing children
-iiightly mixing woi'k with play.
From beneath the long green wmrows.
Glean the sweetly scented hay ;
Let your sickles shine like sunbeams
In the silver flowing rye ;
Ears grow heavy in the cornfields
That will claim you by-and-by.
Go out, reapers, with your sickles,
Gather home the harvest store !
Little gleaners, laughing gleaners,
I shall go with you no more I"
Round the red moon of October
White and cold tlie eve-stars climb,
Birds are gone, anil flowers are dying ;
'Tis a lonesome, lonesome time.
Yellow leaves along the woodland
Surge to drift; tlie clm-bougli sways,
390 THE BOOK OF ELOQUENCE.
Creaking at the homestead window
All the weary nights and days ;
Dismally the rain is falling,
Very dismally and cold.
Close, within the village grave-yai'd,
By a heap of freshest gronnd,
With a simple, nameless head-stone,
Lies a low and narrow mound ;
And the brow of Annie Clayville
Is no longer shadow-crowned.
Rest thee, lost one I rest thee calmly,
Glad to go where pain is o'er,
Where they say not, through the night-time,
" I am weary I" any more.
LV.â LITTLE KINDNESSES.
â In the sharp extremities of fortune
The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter
Have their own season. 'Tis a little thing
To give a cup of water ; yet its draught
Of cool refreshment, drain'd by fever'd lips.
May give a shock of pleasure to the frame
More exquisite than when nectarine juice
Renews the joy of life in happiest hours.
It is a little thing to speak a phrase
Of common comfort, which by daily use
Has almost lost its sense ; yet on the ear
Of him who thought to die unmourn'd, 'twill fall
Like choicest music ; fill the glazing eye
With gentle tears ; relax the knotted liand
To know the bonds of fellowship again ;
And shed on the departing soul a sense.
More precious than the benison of friends