Chapter 29

The sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be; With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence wheresoever I go; If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love, O how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the sou'west blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more, And backward flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; And a mother she was and is to me; For I was born on the open sea! The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born; And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild As welcomed to life the ocean-child! I've lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a sailor's life, With wealth to spend and a power to range, But never have sought nor sighed for change; And Death, whenever he comes to me, Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea! B. W. Proctor.

CCVI.

NAPOLEON.

His falchion flashed along the Nile; His hosts he led through Alpine snows; O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while, His eagle flag unrolled,--and froze.

Here sleeps he now, alone! Not one Of all the kings, whose crowns he gave, Bends o'er his dust;--nor wife, nor son, Has ever seen or sought his grave.

Behind this sea-girt rock, the star That led him on from crown to crown, Has sunk; and nations from afar Gazed as it faded and went down.

High is his couch;--the ocean flood, Far, far below, by storms is curled; As round him heaved, while high he stood A stormy and unstable world.

Alone he sleeps! The mountain cloud That night hangs round him, and the breath Of morning scatters, is the shroud That wraps the conqueror's clay in death.

Pause here! The far-off world, at last, Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones, And to the earth its mitres cast, Lies powerless now beneath these stones.

Hark! comes there, from the pyramids, And from Siberian wastes of snow, And Europe's hills, a voice that bids The world he awed to mourn him? No:

The only, the perpetual dirge That's heard there, is the sea-bird's cry,-- The mournful murmur of the surge,-- The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. J. Pierpont.

CCVII.

WARREN'S ADDRESS AT BUNKER HILL.

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What's the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle peal! Read it on yon bristling steel! Ask it--ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you! they're a-fire! And, before you, see-- Who have done it!--from the vale On they come!--and will ye quail?-- Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be!

In the God of battles trust! Die we may, and die we must;-- But, O! where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where heaven its dews shall shed On martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell! J. Pierpont.

CCVIII.

THANATOPSIS.

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 under 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 if 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 thine 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; The venerable woods; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-- Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are dining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, and traverse Barca's desert sands; Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings,--yet--the dead are there, And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep;--the dead reign there alone.-- So shalt thou rest--and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man-- Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side, By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. W. C. Bryant.

CCIX.

THE AFRICAN CHIEF.

Chained in the market-place he stood, A man of giant frame, Amid the gathering multitude That shrunk to hear his name,-- All stern of look and strong of limb, His dark eye on the ground; And silently they gazed on him, As on a lion bound.

Vainly, but well, that chief had fought-- He was a captive now; Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, Was written on his brow: The scars his dark broad bosom wore Showed warrior true and brave: A prince among his tribe before, He could not be a slave.

Then to his conqueror he spake-- "My brother is a king: Undo this necklace from my neck, And take this bracelet ring, And send me where my brother reigns, And I will fill thy hands With store of ivory from the plains, And gold dust from the sands."

--"Not for thy ivory nor thy gold Will I unbind thy chain; That bloody hand shall never hold The battle-spear again. A price thy nation never gave Shall yet be paid for thee; For thou shalt be the Christian's slave, In land beyond the sea."

Then wept the warrior chief, and bade To shred his locks away, And, one by one, each heavy braid Before the victor lay. Thick were the platted locks, and long, And deftly hidden there Shone many a wedge of gold among The dark and crispèd hair.

"Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold, Long kept for sorest need: Take it--thou askest sums untold-- And say that I am freed. Take it--my wife, the long, long day, Weeps by the cocoa-tree, And my young children leave their play, And ask in vain for me."

--"I take thy gold,--but I have made Thy fetters fast and strong, And ween that by the cocoa shade Thy wife shall wait thee long." Strong was the agony that shook The captive's frame to hear, And the proud meaning of his look Was changed to mortal fear.

His heart was broken,--crazed his brain-- At once his eye grew wild: He struggled fiercely with his chain, Whispered,--and wept,--and smiled; Yet wore not long those fatal bands, And once, at shut of day, They drew him forth upon the sands,-- The foul hyena's prey. W. C. Bryant.

CCX.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encounter'd in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget How gush'd the life-blood of her brave,-- Gush'd, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still; Alone the chirp of flitting birds And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry: Oh, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weapon'd throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown--yet faint thou not,

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When they who help'd thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal'd The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. W. C. Bryant.

CCXI.

HALLOWED GROUND.

What's hallowed ground! Has earth a clod Its Maker meant not should be trod By man, the image of his God, Erect and free, Unscourged by Superstition's rod To bow the knee?

That's hallowed ground--where mourned and missed, The lips repose our love has kissed;-- But where's their memory's mansion? Is 't Yon churchyard's bowers? No; in ourselves their souls exist, A part of ours.

What hallows ground where heroes sleep? 'T is not the sculptured piles you heap! In dews that heavens far distant weep, Their turf may bloom; Or genii twine beneath the deep Their coral tomb.

But strew his ashes to the wind Whose sword or voice has served mankind--And is he dead, whose glorious mind Lifts thine on high? To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die.

Is 't death to fall for freedom's right? He's dead alone that lacks her light! And murder sullies in Heaven's sight The sword he draws:-- What can alone ennoble fight? A noble cause!

Give that! and welcome war to brace Her drums! and rend heaven's reeking space! The colors painted face to face, The charging cheer, Though Death's pale horse led on the chase, Shall still be dear!

And place our trophies where men kneel To Heaven!--but Heaven rebukes my zeal! The cause of truth and human weal, O God above! Transfer it from the sword's appeal To peace and love!

Peace, love! the cherubim, that join Their spread wings o'er devotion's shrine;-- Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine Where they are not;-- The heart alone can make divine Religion's spot.

To incantations dost thou trust, And pompous rites in domes august? See mouldering stones and metals' rust Belie the vaunt, That man can bless one pile of dust With chime or chant.

Fair stars! are not your beings pure? Can sin, can death your worlds obscure? Else why so swell the thoughts at your Aspect above? Ye must be Heaven's that make us sure Of heavenly love!

And in your harmony sublime I read the doom of distant time; That man's regenerate soul from crime Shall yet be drawn, And reason on his mortal clime Immortal dawn.

What's hallowed ground? 'T is what gives birth To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!-- Peace! independence! truth! go forth Earth's compassed round; And your high-priesthood shall make earth All hallowed ground. T. Campbell.

CCXII.

THE EXILE OF ERIN.

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,-- The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed, when, at twilight, repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill: But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion; For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fervor of youth's warm emotion, He sung the bold anthem of "Erin go bragh!"

"Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger-- "The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger: A home and a country remain not to me! Never again in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with wild woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of 'Erin go bragh!'

"Erin! my country! though sad and forsaken In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore! But, alas! in a far, foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! O cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me! They died to defend me!--or live to deplore!

"Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? Ah! my sad soul, long abandoned by pleasure! Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall!

"Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw;-- Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, 'Erin mavournin--Erin go bragh!'" T. Campbell.

CCXIII.

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A chieftain to the Highlands bound, Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry!"

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?" "O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle. And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride-- Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride, When they have slain her lover!"

Out spoke the hardy highland wight, "I'll go, my chief, I'm ready: It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady:--

"And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And, in the scowl of heaven, each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,-- Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,-- When O! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,-- His wrath was changed to wailing!