Chapter 31
But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be.
Bozzaris! with the storied brave, Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee--there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime.
We tell thy doom without a sigh; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,-- One of the few, the immortal names That were not born to die! F. G. Halleck.
CCXXIV.
THE AMERICAN FLAG.
When freedom, from her mountain height, Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there! She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure celestial white With streakings of the morning light; Then, from his mansion in the sun, She called her eagle bearer downy And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land!
Majestic monarch of the cloud! Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, And see the lightning's lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven! Child of the sun! to thee 't is given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle stroke,-- And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war,-- The harbingers of victory!
Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high, When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on. Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn; And as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall, Like shoots of flame on midnights pall; Then shall thy meteor-glances glow, And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death.
Flag of the seas! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye.
Flag of the free heart's hope and home! By angel hands to valor given; Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float, that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! J. R. Drake.
CCXXV.
THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE.
Do not lift him from the bracken, leave him lying where he fell-- Better bier ye cannot fashion: none beseems him half so well As the bare and broken heather, and the hard and broken sod, Whence his angry soul ascended to the judgment-seat of God! Winding-sheet we cannot give him--seek no mantle for the dead, Save the cold and spotless covering showered from heaven upon his head. Leave his broadsword as we found it, rent and broken with the blow, That, before he died, avenged him on the foremost of the foe. Leave the blood upon the bosom--wash not off that sacred stain; Let it stiffen on the tartan, let his wounds unclosed remain, Till the day when he shall show them at the throne of God on high, When the murderer and the murdered meet before their Judge's eye. Nay--ye should not weep, my children! leave it to the faint and weak; Sobs are but a woman's weapons--tears befit a maiden's cheek. Weep not, children of Macdonald! weep not thou, his orphan heir; Not in shame, but stainless honor, lies thy slaughtered father there; Weep not--but when years are over, and thine arm is strong and sure, And thy foot is swift and steady on the mountain and the muir, Let thy heart be hard as iron, and thy wrath as fierce as fire, Till the hour when vengeance cometh for the race that slew thy sire! Till in deep and dark Glenlyon rise a louder shriek of woe, Than at midnight, from their eyry, scared the eagles of Glencoe; Louder than the screams that mingled with the howling of the blast, When the murderers' steel was clashing, and the fires were rising fast; When thy noble father bounded to the rescue of his men, And the slogan of our kindred pealed throughout the startled glen; When the herd of frantic women stumbled through the midnight snow, With their fathers' houses blazing, and their dearest dead below! Oh, the horror of the tempest, as the flashing drift was blown, Crimsoned with the conflagration, and the roofs went thundering down! Oh, the prayers, the prayers and curses, that together winged their flight From the maddened hearts of many, through that long and woful night!-- Till the fires began to dwindle, and the shots grew faint and few, And we heard the foeman's challenge only in a far halloo: Till the silence once more settled o'er the gorges of the glen, Broken only by the Cona plunging through its naked den. Slowly from the mountain summit was the drifting veil withdrawn, And the ghastly valley glimmered in the gray December dawn. Better had the morning never dawned upon our dark despair! Black amidst the common whiteness rose the spectral ruins there: But the sight of these was nothing more than wrings the wild dove's breast, When she searches for her offspring round the relics of her nest. For in many a spot the tartan peered above the wintry heap, Marking where a dead Macdonald lay within his frozen sleep. Tremblingly we scooped the covering from each kindred victim's head, And the living lips were burning on the cold ones of the dead. And I left them with their dearest--dearest charge had every one-- Left the maiden with her lover, left the mother with her son. I alone of all was mateless--far more wretched I than they, For the snow would not discover where my lord and husband lay. But I wandered up the valley, till I found him lying low, With the gash upon his bosom, and the frown upon his brow-- Till I found him lying murdered where he wooed me long ago.
Woman's weakness shall not shame me--why should I have tears to shed? Could I rain them down like water, O my hero! on thy head-- Could the cry of lamentation wake thee from thy silent sleep, Could it set thy heart a-throbbing, it were mine to wail and weep! But I will not waste my sorrow, lest the Campbell women say That the daughters of Clanranald are as weak and frail as they. I had wept thee, hadst thou fallen, like our fathers, on thy shield, When a host of English foemen camped upon a Scottish field. I had mourned thee, hadst thou perished with the foremost of his name, When the valiant and the noble died around the dauntless Græme! But I will not wrong thee, husband, with my unavailing cries, Whilst thy cold and mangled body, stricken by the traitor, lies; Whilst he counts the gold and glory that this hideous night has won, And his heart is big with triumph at the murder he has done. Other eyes than mine shall glisten, other hearts be rent in twain, Ere the heath-bells on thy hillock wither in the autumn rain. Then I'll seek thee where thou sleepest, and I'll veil my weary head, Praying for a place beside thee, dearer than my bridal-bed: And I'll give thee tears, my husband, if the tears remain to me, When the widows of the foeman cry the coronach for thee! W. E. Aytoun.
CCXXVI.
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly, at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his false fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- But we left him alone with his glory. C. Wolfe.
CCXXVII.
THE MANIAC.
Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe! She is not mad who kneels to thee, For what I'm now, too well I know, And what I was, and what should be. I'll rave no more in proud despair; My language shall be mild, though sad: But yet I firmly, truly swear, I am not mad, I am not mad.
My tyrant husband forged the tale Which chains me in this dismal cell; My fate unknown my friends bewail-- Oh! jailer, haste that fate to tell; Oh! haste my father's heart to cheer: His heart at once 't will grieve and glad To know though kept a captive here, I am not mad, I am not mad.
He smiles in scorn, and turns the key; He quits the grate; I knelt in vain; His glimmering lamp still, still I see-- 'T is gone! and all is gloom again. Cold, bitter cold!--No warmth! no light!-- Life, all thy comforts once I had; Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night, Although not mad; no, no, not mad.
'Tis sure some dream--some vision vain! What! I--the child of rank and wealth,-- Am I the wretch who clanks this chain, Bereft of freedom, friends, and health? Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled, Which never more my heart must glad, How aches my heart, how burns my head; But 'tis not mad; no, 'tis not mad.
Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, A mother's face, a mother's tongue? She'll never forget your parting kiss, Nor round her neck how fast you clung; Nor how with her you sued to stay; Nor how that suit your sire forbade; Nor how--I'll drive such thoughts away! They'll make me mad, they'll make me mad.
His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled! His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone! None ever bore a lovelier child: And art thou now forever gone? And must I never see thee more, My pretty, pretty, pretty lad? I will be free! unbar the door! I am not mad, I am not mad.
Oh! hark! what mean those yells and cries? His chain some furious madman breaks; He comes!--I see his glaring eyes; Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes-- Help! help!--He's gone!--Oh! fearful woe, Such screams to hear, such sights to see! My brain, my brain,--I know, I know, I am not mad, but soon shall be.
Yes, soon; for lo you!--while I speak-- Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare! He sees me; now, with dreadful shriek, He whirls a serpent high in air. Horror!--the reptile strikes his tooth Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad;-- Ay, laugh, ye fiends;--I feel the truth; Your task is done--I'm mad! I'm mad! Lewis.
CCXXVIII.
RIENZI TO THE ROMANS.
Friends! I come not here to talk. Ye know too well The story of our thraldom. We are slaves! The bright sun rises to his course, and lights A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beam Falls on a slave; not such, as swept along By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads To crimson glory and undying fame,-- But base, ignoble slaves!--slaves to a horde Of petty tyrants, feudal despots; lords, Rich in some dozen paltry villages; Strong in some hundred spearmen; only great In that strange spell--a name! Each hour, dark fraud Or open rapine, or protected murder, Cries out against them. But this very day, An honest man, my neighbor,--there he stands-- Was struck--struck like a dog, by one who wore The badge of Ursini! because, forsooth, He tossed not high his ready cap in air, Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts, At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men, And suffer such dishonor?--men, and wash not The stain away in blood? Such shames are common. I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to ye, I had a brother once, a gracious boy, Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look Of Heaven upon his face, which limners give To the beloved disciple. How I loved That gracious boy! Younger by fifteen years, Brother at once and son! He left my side, A summer bloom on his fair cheeks a smile Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour, The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! Rouse, ye slaves! Have ye brave sons?--Look in the next fierce brawl To see them die! Have ye fair daughters?--Look To see them live, torn from your arms, distained, Dishonored; and, if ye dare call for justice, Be answered by the lash! Yet, this is Rome, That sate on her seven hills, and from her throne Of beauty ruled the world! Yet, we are Romans. Why in that elder day to be a Roman Was greater than a King! And once again-- Hear me, ye walls that echoed to the tread Of either Brutus!--once again I swear The Eternal City shall be free! Miss Mitford.
CCXXIX.
THE BELL OF THE "ATLANTIC."
Toll, toll, toll! Thou bell by billows swung, And, night and day, thy warning words Repeat with mournful tongue! Toll for the queenly boat, Wrecked on yon rocky shore! Sea-weed is in her palace halls,-- She rides the surge no more.
Toll for the master bold, The high-souled and the brave, Who ruled her like a thing of life Amid the crested wave! Toll for the hardy crew, Sons of the storm and blast, Who long the tyrant ocean dared; But it vanquished them at last.
Toll for the man of God, Whose hallowed voice of prayer Rose calm above the stifled groan Of that intense despair! How precious were those tones, On that sad verge of life, Amid the fierce and freezing storm, And the mountain billows' strife!
Toll for the lover, lost To the summoned bridal train! Bright glows a picture on his breast, Beneath th' unfathomed main. One from her casement gazeth Long o'er the misty sea:
He cometh not, pale maiden,-- His heart is cold to thee! Toll for the absent sire, Who to his home drew near, To bless a glad, expecting group,-- Fond wife, and children dear! They heap the blazing hearth, The festal board is spread, But a fearful guest is at the gate;-- Room for the sheeted dead!
Toll for the loved and fair, The whelmed beneath the tide,-- The broken harps around whose strings The dull sea-monsters glide! Mother and nursling sweet, Reft from the household throng; There's bitter weeping in the nest Where breathed their soul of song.
Toll for the hearts that bleed 'Neath misery's furrowing trace; Toll for the hapless orphan left, The last of all his race! Yea, with thy heaviest knell, From surge to rocky shore, Toll for the living,--not the dead, Whose mortal woes are o'er.
Toll, toll, toll! O'er breeze and billow free; And with thy startling lore instruct Each rover of the sea. Tell how o'er proudest joys May swift destruction sweep, And bid him build his hopes on high,-- Lone teacher of the deep! Mrs. Sigourney.
CCXXX.
THE STRUGGLE FOR FAME.
If thou wouldst win a lasting fame,-- If thou the immortal wreath wouldst claim, And make the future bless thy name,--
Begin thy perilous career, Keep high thy heart, thy conscience clear, And walk thy way without a fear.
And if thou hast a voice within, That ever whispers, "Work and win," And keeps thy soul from sloth and sin;--
If thou canst plan a noble deed, And never flag till it succeed, Though in the strife thy heart should bleed;--
If thou canst struggle day and night, And, in the envious world's despite, Still keep thy cynosure in sight;--
If thou canst bear the rich man's scorn, Nor curse the day that thou wert born To feed on husks, and he on corn;--
If thou canst dine upon a crust, And still hold on with patient trust, Nor pine that fortune is unjust;--
If thou canst see, with tranquil breast, The knave or fool in purple dressed, Whilst thou must walk in tattered vest;--
If thou canst rise ere break of day, And toil and moil till evening gray, At thankless work, for scanty pay;--
If in thy progress to renown Thou canst endure the scoff and frown Of those who strive to pull thee down;--
If thou canst bear the averted face, The gibe, or treacherous embrace, Of those who run the self-same race;--
If thou in darkest days canst find An inner brightness in thy mind, To reconcile thee to thy kind:--
Whatever obstacles control, Thine hour will come--go on--true soul! Thou'lt win the prize, thou'lt reach the goal.
If not--what matters? Tried by fire, And purified from low desire, Thy spirit shall but soar the higher.
Content and hope thy heart shall buoy, And men's neglect shall ne'er destroy Thy secret peace, thy inward joy! C. Mackay.
CCXXXI.
THE SAILOR-BOY'S DREAM.
In slumbers of midnight, the sailor-boy lay; His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; But watch-worn and weary his cares flew away, And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.
He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers, And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn; While memory stood sideways, half covered with flowers And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.