Chapter 8

A good sword and a trusty hand, A merry heart and true, King James's men shall understand What Cornish lads can do. And have they fixed the where and when, And shall Trelawney die? Then twenty thousand Cornish men Will know the reason why. _What! will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen? And shall Trelawney die? Then twenty thousand under ground Will know the reason why_.

Out spake the captain brave and bold, A merry wight was he: "Though London's Tower were Michael's hold, We'll set Trelawney free. We'll cross the Tarnar hand to hand, The Exe shall be no stay; We'll side by side from strand to strand, And who shall bid us nay? _What! will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen? And shall Trelawney die? Then twenty thousand Cornish men Will know the reason why_.

"And when we come to London wall We'll shout with it in view, 'Come forth, come forth, ye cowards all! We're better men than you! Trelawney, he's in keep and hold, Trelawney, he may die; But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold Will know the reason why!' _What! will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen? And shall Trelawney die? Then twenty thousand under ground Will know the reason why_."

ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER.

* * * * *

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.

The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more!

No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells; The chord alone that breaks at night Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives.

THOMAS MOORE.

* * * * *

AS BY THE SHORE AT BREAK OF DAY.

As by the shore, at break of day, A vanquished chief expiring lay, Upon the sands, with broken sword, He traced his farewell to the free; And there the last unfinished word He dying wrote, was "Liberty!"

At night a sea-bird shrieked the knell Of him who thus for freedom fell: The words he wrote, ere evening came, Were covered by the sounding sea;-- So pass away the cause and name Of him who dies for liberty!

THOMAS MOORE.

* * * * *

THE HILLS WERE MADE FOR FREEDOM.

When freedom from her home was driven, 'Mid vine-clad vales of Switzerland, She sought the glorious Alps of heaven, And there, 'mid cliffs by lightnings riven, Gathered her hero-band.

And still outrings her freedom-song, Amid the glaciers sparkling there, At Sabbath bell, as peasants throng Their mountain fastnesses along, Happy, and free as air.

The hills were made for freedom; they Break at a breath the tyrant's rod; Chains clank in valleys; there the prey Writhes 'neath Oppression's heel alway: Hills bow to none but God!

WILLIAM GOLDSMITH BROWN.

* * * * *

SWITZERLAND.

FROM "WILLIAM TELL."

Once Switzerland was free! With what a pride I used to walk these hills,--look up to heaven, And bless God that it was so! It was free From end to end, from cliff to lake 'twas free! Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks, And plough our valleys, without asking leave; Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow In very presence of the regal sun! How happy was I in it then! I loved Its very storms. Ay, often have I sat In my boat at night, when, midway o'er the lake, The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge The wind came roaring,--I have sat and eyed The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head, And think--I had no master save his own!

JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

* * * * *

MAKE WAY FOR LIBERTY!

[Battle of Sempach, fourteenth century.]

"Make way for Liberty!"--he cried; Made way for Liberty, and died! In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, A living wall, a human wood! A wall, where every conscious stone Seemed to its kindred thousands grown; A rampart all assaults to bear, Till time to dust their frames should wear; A wood like that enchanted grove In which with fiends Rinaldo strove, Where every silent tree possessed A spirit prisoned in its breast, Which the first stroke of coming strife Would startle into hideous life: So dense, so still, the Austrians stood, A living wall, a human wood! Impregnable their front appears, All horrent with projected spears, Whose polished points before them shine, From flank to flank, one brilliant line, Bright as the breakers' splendors run Along the billows to the sun.

Opposed to these, a hovering band Contended for their native land: Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke From manly necks the ignoble yoke, And forged their fetters into swords, On equal terms to fight their lords, And what insurgent rage had gained In many a mortal fray maintained: Marshalled once more at Freedom's call, They came to conquer or to fall, Where he who conquered, he who fell, Was deemed a dead, or living, Tell! Such virtues had that patriot breathed, So to the soil his soul bequeathed, That wheresoe'er his arrows flew Heroes in his own likeness grew, And warriors sprang from every sod Which his awakening footstep trod.

And now the work of life and death Hung on the passing of a breath; The fire of conflict burned within, The battle trembled to begin: Yet, while the Austrians held their ground, Point for attack was nowhere found; Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, The unbroken line of lances blazed: That line 'twere suicide to meet, And perish at their tyrants' feet,-- How could they rest within their graves, And leave their homes the homes of slaves? Would they not feel their children tread With clanging chains above their head?

It must not be: this day, this hour, Annihilates the oppressor's power; All Switzerland is in the field, She will not fly, she cannot yield,-- She must not fall; her better fate Here gives her an immortal date. Few were the numbers she could boast; But every freeman was a host, And felt as though himself were he On whose sole arm hung victory.

It did depend on _one_ indeed; Behold him,--Arnold Winkelried! There sounds not to the trump of fame The echo of a nobler name.

Unmarked he stood amid the throng, In rumination deep and long, Till you might see, with sudden grace, The very thought come o'er his face, And by the motion of his form Anticipate the bursting storm, And by the uplifting of his brow Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.

But ' twas no sooner thought than done, The field was in a moment won:--

"Make way for Liberty!" he cried, Then ran, with arms extended wide, As if his dearest friend to clasp; Ten spears he swept within his grasp.

"Make way for Liberty!" he cried; Their keen points met from side to side; He bowed amongst them like a tree, And thus made way for Liberty.

Swift to the breach his comrades fly; "Make way for Liberty!" they cry, And through the Austrian phalanx dart, As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart; While, instantaneous as his fall, Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all: An earthquake could not overthrow A city with a surer blow.

Thus Switzerland again was free; Thus Death made way for Liberty!

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

* * * * *

POLAND.

FROM "THE PLEASURES OF HOPE," PART I.

O sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn; Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland--and to man! Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid; "O Heaven!" he cried, "my bleeding country save!-- Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains, Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains! By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, And swear for her to live--with her to die!" He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed; Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge, or death,--the watchword and reply; Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm!-- In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew:-- O, bloodiest picture in the book of Time! Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career; Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked--as Kosciusko fell!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

THE MARSEILLAISE.

Ye sons of freedom, wake to glory! Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise! Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary, Behold their tears and hear their cries! Shall hateful tyrants, mischiefs breeding, With hireling hosts, a ruffian band, Affright and desolate the land, While peace and liberty lie bleeding? To arms! to arms! ye brave! The avenging sword unsheathe; March on! march on! all hearts resolved On victory or death.

Now, now the dangerous storm is rolling, Which treacherous kings confederate raise; The dogs of war, let loose, are howling, And lo! our fields and cities blaze; And shall we basely view the ruin, While lawless force, with guilty stride, Spreads desolation far and wide, With crimes and blood his hands imbruing? To arms! to arms! ye brave, etc.

O Liberty! can man resign thee, Once having felt thy generous flame? Can dungeons, bolts, or bars confine thee? Or whips thy noble spirit tame? Too long the world has wept, bewailing That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield, But freedom is our sword and shield, And all their arts are unavailing. To arms! to arms! ye brave, etc.

From the French of CLAUDE JOSEPH ROUGET DE LISLE.

* * * * *

A COURT LADY.

Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with purple were dark, Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red and restless spark.

Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in race; Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face.

Never was lady on earth more true as woman and wife, Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in manners and life.

She stood in the early morning, and said to her maidens, "Bring That silken robe made ready to wear at the court of the king.

"Bring me the clasps of diamonds, lucid, clear of the mote, Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp me the small at the throat.

"Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to fasten the sleeves, Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of snow from the eaves."

Gorgeous she entered the sunlight which gathered her up in a flame, While straight, in her open carriage, she to the hospital came.

In she went at the door, and gazing, from end to end, "Many and low are the pallets, but each is the place of a friend."

Up she passed through the wards, and stood at a young man's bed: Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the droop of his head.

"Art thou a Lombard, my brother? Happy art thou!" she cried, And smiled like Italy on him: he dreamed in her face and died.

Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to a second: _He_ was a grave, hard man, whose years by dungeons were reckoned.

Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life were sorer. "Art thou a Romagnole?" Her eyes drove lightnings before her.

"Austrian and priest had joined to double and tighten the cord Able to bind thee, O strong one,--free by the stroke of a sword.

"Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life overcast To ripen our wine of the present (too new) in glooms of the past."

Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face like a girl's, Young, pathetic with dying,--a deep black hole in the curls.

"Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest thou, dreaming in pain, Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the list of the slain?"

Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks with her hands: "Blessèd is she who has borne thee, although she should weep as she stands."

On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball: Kneeling,... "O more than my brother! how shall I thank thee for all?

"Each of the heroes round us has fought for his land and line, But _thou_ hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrong not thine.

"Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispossessed; But blessèd are those among nations who dare to be strong for the rest!"

Ever she passed on her way, and came to a couch where pined One with a face from Venetia, white with a hope out of mind.

Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at the name, But two great crystal tears were all that faltered and came.

Only a tear for Venice?--she turned as in passion and loss, And stooped to his forehead and kissed it, as if she were kissing the cross.

Faint with that strain of heart, she moved on then to another, Stern and strong in his death. "And dost thou suffer, my brother?"

Holding his hands in hers:--"Out of the Piedmont lion Cometh the sweetness of freedom! sweetest to live or to die on."

Holding his cold, rough hands,--"Well, O, well have ye done In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be noble alone."

Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her feet with a spring,-- "That was a Piedmontese! and this is the Court of the King."

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

* * * * *

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND.

The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame:

Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear;-- They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free.

The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared,-- This was their welcome home.

There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim-band: Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of the seas, the spoils of war?-- They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod; They have left unstained what there they found,-- Freedom to worship God.

FELICIA HEMANS.

* * * * *

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 down, 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 trumping loud, And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven,-- Child of the Sun! to thee 'tis 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 midnight's pall, Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall shrink 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!

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

* * * * *

THE STAR-BANGLED BANNER.[A]

[Footnote A: Begun during the attack on Fort McHenry, by a British fleet, which on the night of Sept. 13, 1814, unsuccessfully bombarded that fort from the river Chesapeake; the author, an envoy from the city of Baltimore, having been detained as a prisoner on the fleet.]

O, say, can you see by the dawn's early light What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?-- Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the clouds of the fight O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming! And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?

On that shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; 'Tis the star-spangled banner! O, long may it wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the Heaven-rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation. Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto. "_In God is our trust_:" And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

FRANCIS SCOTT KEY.

* * * * *

NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD.

New England's dead! New England's dead! On every hill they lie; On every field of strife, made red By bloody victory. Each valley, where the battle poured Its red and awful tide, Beheld the brave New England sword With slaughter deeply dyed. Their bones are on the northern hill, And on the southern plain, By brook and river, lake and rill, And by the roaring main.

The land is holy where they fought, And holy where they fell; For by their blood that land was bought, The land they loved so well, Then glory to that valiant band, The honored saviours of the land!

O, few and weak their numbers were,-- A handful of brave men; But to their God they gave their prayer, And rushed to battle then. The God of battles heard their cry, And sent to them the victory.

They left the ploughshare in the mold, Their flocks and herds without a fold, The sickle in the unshorn grain, The corn, half-garnered, on the plain, And mustered, in their simple dress, For wrongs to seek a stern redress, To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe, To perish, or o'ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men? And where are ye to-day? I call:--the hills reply again That ye have passed away; That on old Bunker's lonely height, In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The grass grows green, the harvest bright Above each soldier's mound. The bugle's wild and warlike blast Shall muster them no more; An army now might thunder past, And they heed not its roar. The starry flag, 'neath which they fought In many a bloody day, From their old graves shall rouse them not, For they have passed away.

ISAAC M'LELLAN.

* * * * *

THE REFORMER.

All grim and soiled and brown and tan, I saw a Strong One, in his wrath, Smiting the godless shrines of man Along his path.

The Church beneath her trembling dome Essayed in vain her ghostly charm: Wealth shook within his gilded home With strange alarm.

Fraud from his secret chambers fled Before the sunlight bursting in: Sloth drew her pillow o'er her head To drown the din.

"Spare," Art implored, "yon holy pile; That grand old time-worn turret spare:" Meek Reverence, kneeling in the aisle Cried out, "Forbear!"

Gray-bearded Use, who, deaf and blind, Groped for his old accustomed stone, Leaned on his staff, and wept to find His seat o'erthrown.

Young Romance raised his dreamy eyes, O'erhung with paly locks of gold,-- "Why smite," he asked in sad surprise, "The fair, the old?"

Yet louder rang the Strong One's stroke, Yet nearer flashed his axe's gleam; Shuddering and sick of heart I woke, As from a dream.

I looked: aside the dust-cloud rolled,-- The Waster seemed the Builder too; Upspringing from the ruined Old I saw the New.

'Twas but the ruin of the bad,-- The wasting of the wrong and ill; Whate'er of good the old time had Was living still.

Calm grew the brows of him I feared, The frown which awed me passed away, And left behind a smile which cheered Like breaking day.

The grain grew green on battle-plains, O'er swarded war-mounds grazed the cow; The slave stood forging from his chains The spade and plough.

Where frowned the fort, pavilions gay And cottage windows, flower-entwined, Looked out upon the peaceful bay And hills behind.