Chapter 2

XLIII. Built o'er the Indian's grave, the city, here, To all the pomp of civic pride is giv'n, While o'er the spot there falls no tribute-tear, Not e'en his kindred drop--the dew of Heav'n. How touching was the chieftain's homily! That none would mourn for him when he should die; Soon shall the race of their last man be run-- Then who will mourn for them? Alas! not one--not one!

XLIV. They all have passed away, as thou must pass, Who now art wandering westward where they trod-- An atom in the mighty human mass, Who live and die. No more. The grave-green sod, Can but be made the greener o'er the best, A flattering epitaph may tell the rest-- While they who come, as come these onward waves, Forget who sleep below, and trample on their graves.

XLV. Yet, who, that ever trod upon this shore, Since the rude red man left it to his tread, Thinks not of him, and marks not, o'er and o'er, The contrast of the living with the dead? There the tall forest falls--that Indian mound Will soon be levelled with the ploughed-up ground-- Where stands that village church, traditions hold, The war-whoop once rang loud o'er many a warrior cold.

XLVI. Where stole the paddle-plied and tottering bark Along the rough shores cragg'd and sedgy side,-- Where the fierce hunter, from the forest dark, Pursued the wild deer o'er the mountains wild,-- Now towering cities rise on either hand, And Commerce hastens by to many a strand, Not on her white wings, as upon the sea-- Yet borne as bravely on, and spreading liberty.

XLVII. And here, where once the Indian mother dwelt, Cradling her infant on the blast-rocked tree, Feeling the vengeance that her warrior felt, And teaching war to childhood on her knee-- Now dwells the christian mother: O! _her_ heart Has learned far better the maternal part-- Yet, in deep love, in passion for her child, Who has surpass'd thine own, wild woman of the wild?

XLVIII. Our homes, and hearts, and Nature, the blue sky, Breathe these affections into all who live-- The flowings of their fountains cannot dry. Who gave us life? 'Tis He, who bids them live! And they have lived, here, in this forest-bower, In all the strength, the constancy, the power, The deep devotion, the unchanging truth Of Eden's early dawn, when Time was in his youth.

XLIX. How patient was that red man of the wood! Not like the white man, garrulous of ill-- Starving! who heard his faintest wish for food? Sleeping upon the snow-drift on the hill! Who heard him chide the blast, or say 'twas cold? His wounds are freezing! is the anguish told? Tell him his child was murdered with its mother! He seems like carved out stone that has no woe to smother.

L. With front erect, up-looking, dignified-- Behold high Hecla in eternal snows! Yet, while the raging tempest is defied, Deep in its bosom how the pent flame glows! And when it bursts forth in its fiery wrath! How melts the ice-hill from its fearful path, As on it rolls, unquench'd, and all untam'd!-- Thus was it with that chief when his wild passions flam'd.

LI. Nature's own statesman, by experience taught, He judged most wisely, and could act as well; With quickest glance could read another's thought, His own, the while, the keenest could not tell; Warrior--with skill to lengthen, or combine, Lead on, or back, the desultory line; Hunter--he passed the trackless forest through,-- Now on the mountain trod, now launch'd the light canoe.

LII. To the Great Spirit, would his spirit bow, With hopes that Nature's impulses impart; Unlike the Christian, who just says his vow With heart enough to say it all by heart. Did we his virtues from his faults discern, 'Twould teach a lesson that we well might learn: An inculcation worthiest of our creed, To tell the simple truth, and do the promised deed.

LIII. How deeply eloquent was the debate, Beside the council fire of those red men! With language burning as his sense of hate; With gesture just, with eye of keenest ken; With illustration simple, but profound, Drawn from the sky above him, or the ground Beneath his feet; and with unfalt'ring zeal, He spoke from a warm heart and made e'en cold hearts feel.

LIV. And this is Eloquence. 'Tis the intense, Impassioned fervor of a mind deep fraught With native energy, when soul and sense Burst forth, embodied in the burning thought; When look, emotion, tone, are all combined-- When the whole man is eloquent with mind-- A power that comes not to the call or quest, But from the gifted soul, and the deep feeling breast.

LV. Poor Logan had it, when he mourned that none Were left to mourn for him;--'twas his who swayed The Roman Senate by a look or tone; 'Twas the Athenian's, when his foes, dismayed, Shrunk from the earthquake of his trumpet call; 'Twas Chatham's, strong as either, or as all; 'Twas Henry's holiest, when his spirit woke Our patriot fathers' zeal to burst the British yoke.

LVI. Isle of the beautiful! how much thou art, Now in thy desolation, like the fate Of those who came in innocence of heart, With thy green Eden to assimilate: Then Art her coronal to Nature gave, To deck thy brow; Queen of the onward wave! And woman came, the beautiful and good, And made her happy home 'mid thy embracing flood.[6]

LVII. Alas! another came: his blandishment, The fascination of his smooth address, That read so well the very heart's intent, And could so well its every thought express,--[7] Won thy fair spirits to his dark design, And gave our country, too, her Cataline. He lives--the Roman traitor dared to die! Yet, in their different fates, behold the homily.

LVIII. Rome, torn by civil feuds and anarchy, Could not endure a traitor on her heart-- For ready Faction, with her argus eye, Was ever watchful when to play her part; And Freedom, with a nightmare on her breast, But show'd she liv'd by groaning when opprest; And even Cato's energy to save, Preserved her, but awhile, to sink upon her grave.

LIX. Far different with our Country! mark the time When she threw off her trans-atlantic yoke-- Throughout the wide domain of her fair clime, But one high soldier from his promise broke: In that free gathering who would not enroll With all the patriot's willingness of soul? Our fathers fought for sacred home and hearth! And were too young in crime to think of treason's birth.

LX. And when the war had passed, and Freedom raised Her temple to her worshippers, to bless Those who had lit her altar fires, that blazed To light the far untrodden wilderness, All felt the worship, all confessed the God, All knew the tyrant, and all curs'd his rod-- And if one heart fell from his promise then, Why, he might live like Cain, scorned of his fellow men.

LXI. The Cain of Nations! be that sov'reignty, That shall, for any purpose, seek to sever The glorious union of the brave and free-- That, but for treason, will endure forever! Her curse shall be the base redeemless lot Of the once free, who feel that they are not-- Who tread their native soil as native slaves, And build their bondage house on their free fathers' graves.

LXII. In such a state, would not a Cæsar rise, And chain the nation to his gory car, And pluck from out the blue of our bright skies, To form his diadem, that falling star? Then, one by one, each brilliant light would fall, And primal chaos desolate them all-- While Tyranny, with loud prophetic shout, Would wave his bloody sword, as each and all went out!

LXIII. That free born spirit who could rouse again? The dried-up fountain and the scorched up field. The breath, that withers mountain, flood, and plain, To Nature's revolution learn to yield: As strong as ever, man may tread the soil, And sweat for others at his daily toil-- But how shall he regain the gift unbought, The privilege to act the high resolve of thought?

LXIV. Say, how shall he regain it, when 'twas giv'n With broken vow, apostatizing breath? How stand erect, how look to the bright Heav'n, Cloth'd in the darkness of that moral death? Her rights down trod, her star-lit banner rent, O! where could Freedom find an armament? How gather, in their glory and their pride, Her own grey father-band, who, for her, nobly died.

LXV. United hearts have made united States! What could a single, separate State have done Without the arms of her confederates? Without their glorious leader, WASHINGTON! They stand united, but divided fall-- 'Twas union that gave liberty to all! Then, who would call mad Discord from her cell, To scatter poisons there where the world's manna fell!

LXVI. Proud Venice, by her Doge's solemn rite, Was wedded to the wave o'er which she rose: Thence came her lions' all-surpassing might-- A greatness that 'twas glory to oppose. A peaceful pomp proclaimed her nuptial bands: Our Country's bond of States, and hearts and hands, Was signed and sealed before a world amazed, While, for her nuptial torch, red Battle's bacon blaz'd!

LXVII. It was a bloody sacrament: Death came Unto the bridal, like a bidden guest, The Priestess, FREEDOM, had but bless'd the flame, E'er the fierce furies to the revel press'd: The storm grew dark--its lightning flash'd afar-- Murder and Rapine leagu'd themselves with War; Yet, proudly and triumphantly, on high, That eagle-guarded banner waved to victory.

LXVIII. How fiercely flew that eagle o'er the plain! Then, Albion, sunk thy lion's lordly crest; Behold! again he shakes his brist'ling mane-- There is a serpent in that eagle's nest, Seeking to sting her, in the feint to help, And give her free brood to the lion's whelp-- She strikes the reptile, headless down to earth-- And thus may Treason die, let who will give it birth!

LXIX. Last of the Signers! a good night to thee! Alas! that such brave spirits must depart: Peace to thy ashes--to thy memory A monument in every living heart. It gives the spirit strength, endurance, pride, A lofty purpose, unto thine allied, To muse upon thy glory--'tis to stand, As 'twere, upon thy hearth, and hold thee by the hand.

LXX. And hear thee tell of thy illustrious peers Who stood beside thee, for our country, there, Fearless, amidst a host of pressing fears, And calm, where even Courage might despair. Ye staked, with this high energy indued, "Life, Fortune, Honor," for the public good, And made your "Declaration" to the world, And, to the tyrant's teeth, defiance sternly hurl'd.

LXXI. Alas! the omen--in this awful hour, While Discord and Disunion rend the land! Did'st thou take with thee Freedom's priceless dower? Did'st thou resume the gift of thine own hand, And bear the affrighted Goddess to the skies? Are there no mourners o'er thy obsequies? None, who, with high resolves, approach thy grave? Or--flits a spirit there, that frights the modern brave?

LXXII. Say, has our Capital no tarpeian height[8] From which to hurl the traitor? Standing now, Where once he stood, in patriotic might, With the fresh laurel wreath upon his brow, And Freedom burning on his lip of flame; Does Pity plead forgiveness for his shame? Then bear him thence, like Manlius, and be just-- Or go to Vernon's shade, and desecrate its dust.

LXXIII. Soon must I mingle in the wordy war, Where Knavery takes in vice her sly degrees, As slip, away, not guilty, from the bar, Counsel, or client, as their Honors please. To breathe, in crowded courts, a pois'nous breath-- To plead for life--to justify a death-- To wrangle, jar, to twist, to twirl, to toil,-- This is the lawyer's life--a heart-consuming moil.

LXXIV. And yet it has its honors; high of name And pure of heart, and eloquent of tongue, Have kindled, there, with a most holy flame, While thousands on their glowing accents hung! And be it mine to follow where they've led, To praise, if not to imitate, the dead-- To hail their lustre, like the distant star Which the sad wayworn bless, and follow from afar.

LXXV. My friends! how often, in our social talk, Have we called up these names of spell-like power, As, arm in arm, we took the friendly walk, Or lingered out the evening's parting hour-- Or met at the debate, with joyous zest, To test our strength, and each to do his best; While pun and prank we gaily gave and took, With friendship in each heart and pleasure in each look.

LXXVI. I recollect it well, and lov'd the time, When we were wont to meet: when last we met, I parted from you for this western clime, With the deep feeling never to forget. In the quick bustle of the busy throng, I feel that I shall miss ye, O! how long! The generous hearts who mann'd my spirit on-- Who sooth'd me when I lost, and cheer'd me if I won.[9]

LXXVII. Away! why should I muse in unsooth'd sadness! While the gay sky is smiling upon earth, Like a young mother, o'er her infant's gladness, Blessing the early promise of its birth. The opening day-dawn breaks along the land, Like glorious FREEDOM, as her hopes expand; While the far mountains tower to meet the glow, The altar fires are lit, burning on all below.

LXXVIII. Oh! light up every land, till, far and free, Their brave hearts come from mountain and from plain, While, with the shout of onward liberty, Old Earth to her foundation shakes again. The night is gone!--thus Tyranny recedes!-- The sky is cloudless!--FREEDOM!--like thy deeds: A gladness beams o'er earth, and main, and Heav'n-- Thus look the nations up, their chains, their chains are riv'n.

LXXIX. Kingdoms are falling! thrones--that have withstood The earthquake and the tempest in their shock, And brav'd the host of battle's fiery flood, Making of human rights the merest mock,[10] Of blood, of agony, of human tears, The daily sacrifice of countless years-- Are falling: may they fall on every shore, As fell the fiend from Heav'n, no more to rise--no more.

LXXX. Greece gathers up again her glorious band! With FREEDOM'S loud hurra the Andes quake! It swells, like ocean's wave, from land to land-- Bless them, our Father! for thy children's sake. They strike the noblest who shall strike the first-- Wailing and prostrate, Tyranny accurst, Convulses earth with his fierce agonies; But, if ye strike like men, the fell dictator dies!

LXXXI. A tear for Poland! many tears for her Who rose so nobly, and so nobly fell! E'en at her broken shrine, a worshipper, In dust and ashes, let me say farewell! Farewell! brave spirits!--Earth! and can it be, Thy sons beheld them struggling to be free-- Unaided, saw them in their blood downtrod-- Nations, ye are accurst! be merciful, Oh God!

LXXXII. My HOME! it needs no prophet voice to tell Thy coming glories; they are thronging fast, Like the enchantments of the Sybil's cell, Expanding brighter to the very last: Fulfilling all the patriot's burning vow, Be free forever my own land as now! While the uprising nations hail thy star, And strike, for freedom, that God-sanctioned war.

LXXXIII. And they may fall--but who shall date thy end? Lo! all the past has giv'n its light to thee: Expiring Rome, like a departing friend, Gave solemn warning to thy liberty: And e'en the empires, fabulously old In fruitful fable, have a moral told; What say their fallen kings and shrineless God? There is no "right divine" in the fell tyrant's rod!

LXXXIV. Thou learn'dst the lesson, long ago, my HOME, And taught'st it to a willing, wondering world, When thy bright stars rose o'er the ocean's foam, And lit thy banner as it stood unfurl'd; When, from thy farthest mountain to the sea, All rose to bless that banner and be free, Where perch'd thy eagle, in victorious might, While the proud, lordly lion fled in craven flight.

LXXXV. Thou hast my heart--and freely do I bow, To bless thee, Freedom, on thy holiest shrine, And give to thee devotion's warmest vow; Oh! let thy spirit mingle into mine: Thy temple is my country, whose far dome Circles as high as the Almighty's home-- Here, 'mid the glories of Creation's birth, Thy altars spread around--this is my mother earth.

LXXXVI. Glorious! most glorious! proudly let me stand, With the rapt fervor of a Poet's eye, And pour my blessings on my native land; Oh! for the gift to tell thy destiny, And mould it to the telling--thou should'st rise, Eternal, as the stars that bless thy skies, And sparkle in thy banner--thou should'st be All that thy brave hearts wish'd, who will'd thee to be free.

LXXXVII. And no portentous, fearful meteor, there, Should blaze, and blacken, and create dismay, Shaking fierce furies from its snaky hair; No!--thou should'st light the Nations on their way, And be to them a watchword to fight well; And should they fall, as Poland's patriots fell. Oh! cheer them with their exile-flag unfurl'd, And give them freedom here, in her own Western world.

LXXXVIII. Auspicious Time! unroll the scroll of years-- Behold our pious pilgrim fathers, when They launch'd their little bark and braved all fears, Those peril-seeking, freedom-loving men! Bless thee, thou Stream! abiding blessings bless Thy farthest wave--Nile of the wilderness! And be thy broad lands peopled, far and wide, With hearts as free as his who now doth bless thy tide.

LXXXIX. And may new States arise, and stretch afar, In glory, to the great Pacific shore-- A galaxy, without a falling star-- Freedom's own Mecca, where the world adore. There may Art build--to Knowledge there be giv'n The book of Nature and the light of Heav'n; There be the Statesman's and the patriot's shrine, And Oh! be happy there, the hearts that woo the Nine.

XC. There is a welcome in this Western Land Like the old welcomes, which were said to give The friendly heart where'er they gave the hand; Within this soil the social virtues live, Like its own forest trees, unprun'd and free-- At least there is one welcome here for me: A breast that pillowed all my sorrows past, And waits my coming now, and lov'd me first and last.

XCI. It binds my Eastern to my Western home; Then let me banish thoughts that sad would be: Not like a leaf-borne insect on the foam, But like a bark upon a glorious sea-- A little bark, perchance, yet firm withal, 'Midst bursting breakers that shall not appal-- I'll bide the coming of a brighter day, Or, to the far off West, pass, like the past, away.

FINIS.

NOTES.

NOTE I.

_"The Emigrant, or Reflections," &c._

Mr. Hammond, in the notice which he was so kind as to take of this POEM, suggested the alteration of the title from "Reflections" to "Reveries." In retaining the first title, I do not do so because I think it best, but merely because it was the first title, and the one under which the extracts were given.

It seems to the author, if he may dare to hazard the remark, that the stanza in which he has attempted to write, has advantages over even the Spenserean stanzas. He understands the latter to be that in which the Fairy Queen, from whose author it takes its name--Beattie's Minstrel, Thompson's Castle of Indolence, Byron's Childe Harold, &c. &c., are written. The following is a stanza of it, from Childe Harold:

The starry fable of the Milky Way Has not thy story's purity; it is A constellation of a sweeter ray, And sacred nature triumphs more in this Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss Where sparkle distant worlds. Oh! holiest nurse! No drop of that clear spring its way shall miss To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source With life, as our free souls rejoin the Universe.

Here, the reader will perceive that, in a stanza of nine lines, there is a necessity for the second, the fourth, the fifth, and the seventh lines to rhyme together; and that the sixth, eighth and ninth lines must, also, rhyme together. To make the stanza correct, with these complicated embarrassments of rhyme, must not only cause great trouble, sometimes, to the easiest versifier, but to succeed in doing so, critically, he must often sacrifice a happy expression, a striking phrase, or a beautiful line. "Words are things," says Mirabeau; and, to the poet, they are things of potency. They are at once tools and materials in his headwork.

Any one who has read Childe Harold, must have observed that even the Lord of Poets, with all his powers of language, was often thus hampered, and that, for the sake of preserving the force of an expression, or a striking word, he used what are no rhymes at all, if Monk Lewis' remark to Scott, "that a bad rhyme is no rhyme," be true.

Whereas, by making the stanza of but eight lines and having the first four lines to rhyme alternately, and the last four immediately, and by having the concluding line an Alexandrine, as in the Spenserean stanzas, the difficulty, arising from the necessity of having so many similar rhymes, would be obviated, and the poet would have much greater facilities in expressing himself well, without impairing the dignity or strength of what might still be called, from its many resemblances, the Spenserean stanzas; at the same time, the monotony would be avoided, of which criticism has complained so much in the works of Pope and Goldsmith.

Very few readers of poetry, in the first poems which they open, are fond of those, no matter how great their merits, which are written in the Spenserean stanzas. They have to acquire a taste for it. They delight in simpler styles: this is one reason of Scott's great popularity with many persons who seldom read any other poet, except perhaps, Burns. And even to those who have a natural taste for poetry, but who have not much cultivated it, the Spenserean stanza seems complicated, and, I will even venture to say, at first untunable; and it is not at the first perusal that they perceive the beauties of those poems which are written in this style.

These remarks are hazarded very hastily. It would be much more difficult for the author to build the complicated verse of the Spenserean stanza, than this which he has attempted; and, therefore, perhaps, very rashly, he concludes that it would be more difficult for others; and, moreover, we easily persuade ourselves that what is most easily done it is best to do.

NOTE II.

_"But thou art given by the good all-giver, Blessing a land to be in turn most blest."_

_Thou exulting and abounding river, Making thy waves a blessing as they flow._

BYRON.

NOTE III.

_"Here once Boone trod--the hardy Pioneer-- The only white man in the wilderness."_