Floats mournfully upon the gale
When all is desolate and lone.
Life hath its hopes-a matin dream-
A cankered flower-a setting sun,
Which casts a transitory gleam
Upon the even's cloud of dun.
Pass but an hour, the dream hath fled,
The flowers on earth forsaken lie-
The sun hath set, whose lustre shed
A light upon the shaded sky.
[Commercial Advertiser. New-York.]
LAND of the brave! where lie inurn'd
The shrouded forms of mortal clay,
In whom the fire of valor burn'd
And blaz'd upon the battle's fray :-
Land, where the gallant Spartan few
Bled at Thermopyle of yore,
When death his purple garment threw
On Helle's confederated shore !
Land of the muse! within thy bower
Her soul-entrancing echoes rung,
While, on their course, the rapid hours
Paus'd at the melody she sung-
Till every grove and every hill,
And every stream that flow'd along,
From morn to night repeated still
The winning harmony of song.
Land of dead heroes-living slaves-
Shall glory gild thy clime no more ;
Her banner float above thy waves,
Where proudly it hath swept before?
Hath not remembrance then a charm
To break the fetter and the chain,-
To bid thy children nerve the arm-
And strike for freedom once again?
No! coward souls! the light which shone
On Leuctra's war-empurpled day,-
The light which beamed on Marathon
Hath lost its splendor, ceas'd to play :
And thou art but a shadow now,
With helmet shatter'd-spear in rust-
Thy honour buť a dream-and thou
Despis'd-degraded-in the dust !
Where sleeps the spirit, that, of old,
Dash'd down to earth the Persian plume,
When the loud chaunt of triumph told
How fatal was the despot's doom?
The bold three hundred-where are they,
Who died on battle's gory breast?
Tyrants have trampled on the clay,
Where death has hush'd them into rest.
Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill
A glory shines of ages fled,
And fame her light is pouring still,
Not on the living, but the dead!
But 'tis the dim sepulchral light
Which sheds a faint and feeble ray,
As moon-beams on the brow of night,
When tempests sweep upon their way.
Greece! Yet awake thee from thy trance-
Behold thy banner waves afar-
Behold the glittering weapons glance
Along the gleaming front of war!
A gallant chief of high emprize
Is urging foremost in the field,
Who calls upon thee to arise
In might-in majesty reveal'd.
In vain, in vain the hero calls
In vain he sounds the trumpet loud→→
His banner totters-see, it falls
In ruin, freedom's battle shroud:
Thy children have no soul to dare
Such deeds as glorified their sires-
Their valour but a meteor's glare,
Which gleams a moment, and expires.
Lost land where genius made his reign,
And rear'd his golden arch on high-
Where science rais'd her sacred fane,
Its summit peering to the sky :
Upon thy clime the midnight deep
Of ignorance hath brooded long,
And, in the tomb, forgotten, sleep
The sons of science and of song.
Thy sun hath set-the evening storm
Hath pass'd in giant fury by,
To blast the beauty of thy form,
And spread its pall upon thy sky:
"O that I might die the death of the righteous!"
JOYFUL, and yet tremendous hour,
When, from the dangerous cell of clay,
The soul, by Death's dissolving power,
Breaks forth-looks round-and all is day!
A vast eternity before
The disembodied spirit lies,
And, shudd'ring on its awful shore,
The new-born nestling of the skies,
Gazing and wond'ring, soars with eagle flight,
Through stars and suns―undazzled at the sight.
II.
And Oh! what wonders burst upon the view,
As heaven's all-glorious splendors wide unfold!
What sweet hosannas-anthems ever new!
What thrones of sapphire-diadems of gold,
Of suffering, spotless virtue, the reward,
Await for all the ransom'd of the Lord!
The Spirit and the Bride say, Come,
Enjoy thy ever-blissful home;
Again arch-angels strike their lyres ;
Again, Redemption ! joyful song,
Warbled through all the heav'nly throng,
From every saint and angel's tongue,
In holy chorus pours along,
And rapturous bliss inspires.
A robe of pure, unsullied white,
The blood-wash'd soul adorns ;
A crown, with stars of glory bright,
Stars that have never seen the night,
Is giv'n by Him, whose countenance is light,
By Him, who once was crown'd with thorns!
The ravish'd soul looks down on earth,
Benighted world of griefs and fears;
Vast nations, buoyant on a scalding flood
Of human misery's tears;
Whole kingdoms reeking with the blood
Of virtue's holy martyrs, years on years; A world that gave a Saviour birth
How wretched-wretched now, that world appears ! VI.
Could earthly woes celestial realms invade,
O'erwhelm'd with sorrows would the righteous be ;
But here, forever thy proud waves are stay'd,
Thou troubled ocean of mortality;
Death and eternity, the wall and line,
That bar affliction, mortal from divine.
No dreams of suffering past, or worldly woes,
Disturb the tranquil morn of Faith's repose;
But rest, unceasing, to the saint is given,
And all the life, and bliss, and heaven of heaven.
VII.
Oh! for the wings of the bright early morning,
Swifter than light would they bear me away,
Where those blest martyrs are both worlds adorning,
Fairer than beauty, and brighter than day.
O for the death of the righteous and holy !
O for the vict'ry o'er hell and the grave!
Come, blessed moments, why travel so slowly?
God, is thine arm not almighty to save?
Save me from scenes of unparallel'd sorrow,
Darker than night-clouds that shut out my soul
From the blest day-spring of hope on the morrow→→→
Thunders of Sinai, how awful ye roll!
But, from the regions of glory supernal,
Breaks a sweet voice, full of comfort and love;
God, in his mercy, unchang'd and eternal,
Wounds but to heal thee with raptures above.
NEW-ENGLAND.
[Connecticut Herald. New-Haven.]
HAIL to the land whereon we tread,
Our fondest boast;
The sepulchre of mighty dead,
The truest hearts that ever bled,
Who sleep on Glory's brightest bed,
A fearless host:
No slave is here-our unchain'd feet
Walk freely, as the waves that beat
Our coast
Our fathers cross'd the ocean's wave
To seek this shore ;
They left behind the coward slave
To welter in his living grave;—
With hearts unbent, and spirits brave,
They sternly bore
Such toils, as meaner souls had quell'd ;
But souls like these, such toils impell'd
To soar.
Hail to the morn, when first they stood
On Bunker's height,
And, fearless, stemm'd th' invading flood,
And wrote our dearest rights in blood,
And mow'd in ranks the hireling brood,
In desperate fight!
O! 'twas a proud, exulting day,
For even our fallen fortunes lay
In light.
There is no other land like thee,
No dearer shore;
Thou art the shelter of the free;
The home, the port of Liberty,
Thou hast been, and shalt ever be,
Till time is o'er.
Ere I forget to think upon
My land, shall mother curse the son
She bore.
Thou art the firm, unshaken rock,
On which we rest;
And, rising from thy hardy stock,
Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock,
And Slavery's galling chains unlock,
And free th' oppress'd :
All, who the wreath of Freedom twine,
Beneath the shadow of their vine
Are blest.
We love thy rude and rocky shore,
And here we stand-
Let foreign navies hasten o'er,
And on our heads their fury pour,
And peal their canon's loudest roar,
And storm our land;
They still shall find, our lives are giv'n
To die for home ;-and leant on Heav'n,
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