I.
We both are pilgrims, wild and winding river!
Both wandering onward to the boundless West
But thou art given by the good All-giver,
Blessing a land to be in turn most blest:
While, like a leaf-borne insect, floating by,
Chanceful and changeful is my destiny;
I needs must follow where thy currents lave
Perchance to find a home, or else, perchance a grave.

II.
Yet, dost thou bear me on to one I’ve loved
From Boyhood’s thoughtlessness to Manhood’s thought,
In all the changes of our lives, unmoved
That young affection no regret has brought:
Beloved one! when I seem Fortune’s slave,
Reckless and wrecked upon the wayward wave,
Bright Hope, the Halcyon, rises o’er the sea,
Calming the troubled wave bearing my heart to thee.

III.
Alas! we parted: what a bitter sorrow
Clings to the memory of our last embrace!
No joy to-day, no promise of to-morrow,
No idol image, shall usurp thy place:
For thee my holiest hope is upward given
My love for thee is with my love for Heav’n,
A dedication of my heart to thine,
With God to smile on both, and consecrate the shrine.

IV.
Our home, when last I saw it, was all lone;
Yet my affections peopled it with those
Whose sunny smile upon my boyhood shone;
Then came reality, the heart-spring froze:
There was the stream, the willow, and the wild wood,
Where, emulous of height, in playing childhood,
With hearts encircled, on the beechen tree,
Dear one, I carved thy name, but then thou wert with me.

V.
Thou wert my nurse in many an hour of pain,
My comforter in many an hour of sadness;
And when my spirit leaped to joy again,
Thou wert the one who joyed most in its gladness.
Ay, more than nurse and more than comforter
Thou taught’st my erring spirit not to err,
Gave it a softness nature had not given,
As now the blessed moon makes earth resemble heav’n.

VI.
How deep the bitterness alone to grieve
In grief’s deep hour the death-watch of the night
When Fancy can no more her day dreams weave,
And there seems madness in the moons pale light
When sorrow holds us, like a life-long state,
Not as a portion, but the whole of fate,
When the mind yields, like sick men to their dreams,
Who know all is not right, yet know not that which seems.

VII.
Why come such thoughts across the brow? Oh, why
Cannot the soul sit firmly on her throne,
And keep beside her strong Philosophy?
Alas! I am a wanderer and alone.
Beneath deep feeling reason’s self must sink;
We cannot change the thought, yet we must think;
And, O! how darkly come such thoughts to me
The gathered pangs of years, recounting agony.

VIII.
Who has not felt, in such a night as this,
The glory and the greatness of a God,
And bowed his head, in humbleness, to kiss
His merciful and kindly chast’ning rod?
The far off stars! how beautiful and bright!
Peace seems abroad upon the world to-night;
And e’en the bubble, dancing on the stream,
Is glittering with hope, a dream a very dream!

IX.
In sickness and in sorrow, how the breast
Will garner its affections in their home!
Like stricken bird that cowers within its nest,
And feels no more an anxiousness to roam;
While a thick darkness, like a cloud, comes o’er
The gallant spirit; it can rise no more
To wing its way, as if it sought the sky,
But falls to earth, forlorn, as though it fell to die.

X.
And yet, there is a torturing sense of life,
E’en in the feeling of the quick drawn breath,
That tells of many years of woe and strife,
Ekeing our being out, though bringing death:
While Fancy, with a thousand thronging tales,
Now in her gladness, now in woe, prevails,
Till the dark moment of o’erwhelming grief,
When sorrow mourns as one who cannot find relief.

XI.
Is health returnless? Never more may I
Throw by the staff on which, alas! I lean?
Is the woof woven of my destiny?
Shall I ne’er be again what I have been?
And must th’ bodily anguish be combined
With the intenseness of the anxious mind?
The fever of the fame and of the soul,
With no medicinal draught to quell it or control.

XII.
Upon my brow I feel the furrow’s course,
Deep sinking inward to the source of thought;
The deeper sinking if I seek its source,
Or try to crush its agony, unsought,
O! tell thy secret, thou stern vampyre, Care!
E’en for Philosophy thou hast a snare,
For in thy quest she wears the galling chain,
Making the burden more, the more she’d soothe its pain.

XIII.
Sweet solace of the life-lorn! Hope! to thee
How oft in loneliness the heart will turn,
To quell the pang of its keen misery;
While wailing sorrow weeps o’er memory’s urn:
Rise from the ashes of my buried years!
The past comes up with overflowing tears,
To quench the promises that would arise:
They’re in the future far where are they? in the skies!

XIV.
My hopes, e’en my hopes, wither; a dark cloud
Has passed between them and the glorious sun,
Clothing the breathing being in a shroud
The pall is o’er them and their race is run:
Their epitaph is written in my heart
The all of memry that can neer depart
Yes, it is here! the truth of every dream,
The ever-present thought, in every varying theme.

XV.
O! who can pierce the cloud that o’er him lowers?
It were as vain my wayward fate to scan;
Enough, twill come with th onhurrying hours
The futile purpose or the settled plan:
Or Death, perchance, e’en now each tie may sever!
There’s many a grave in this bright rolling river,
That’s bounding onward where the one I love,
To meet my coming, now, on its far banks may rove.

XVI.
And, but that thou would’st feel a pang for me,
’Twere sweet, methinks, to sleep beneath the wave;
Its murmuring song, like sweetest minstrelsy,
Would rest a wanderer in an early grave,
Within thee, River, many a pale face sleeps
And many a redmans ghost his vigil keeps
And many a maid has watched the dark banks over
He comes not, yet, in truth, he was a faithful lover.

XVII.
For then, perchance, thy stream ran red with blood,
Then pale and red men met upon thy shore
Embracing foes they sunk within the flood,
Fierce twins in death, and joined forevermore,
Forevermore in time. Eternity!
Thy doom we see not, and we may not see,
But God is just! to Him the red race fly,
Driv’n to the pathless West, thence upward to the sky.

XVIII.
Here once Boone trod the hardy Pioneer
The only white man in the wilderness:
Oh! how he loved, alone, to hunt the deer,
Alone, at eve, his simple meal to dress;
No mark upon the tree, nor print, nor track,
To lead him forward, or to guide him back;
He roved the forest, king by main and might,
And looked up to the sky and shaped his course aright.

XIX.
That mountain, there, that lifts its bald high head
Above the forest, was, perchance, his throne;
There has he stood and marked the woods outspread,
Like a great kingdom, that was all his own;
In hunting shirt and moccassins arrayed,
With bear skin cap, and pouch, and needful blade,
How carelessly he leaned upon his gun!
That sceptre of the wild, that had so often won.

XX.
Those western Pioneers an impulse felt.
Which their less hardy sons scarce comprehend;
Alone, in Nature’s wildest scenes, they dwelt,
Where crag, and precipice, and torrent blend,
And stretched around the wilderness, as rude
As the red rovers of its solitude,
Who watched their coming with a hate profound,
And fought with deadly strife for every inch of ground.

XXI.
To shun a greater ill sought they the wild?
No! they left happier lands behind them far,
And brought the nursing mother and her child
To share the dangers of the border war;
The log-built cabin from the Indian barred,
Their little boy, perchance, kept watch and ward,
While Father ploughed with rifle at his back,
Or sought the glutted foe through many a devious track.

XXII.
How cautiously, yet fearlessly, that boy
Would search the forest for the wild beast’s lair,
And lift his rifle with a hurried joy
If chance he spied the Indian lurking there:
And should they bear him prisoner from the fight,
While they are sleeping in the dead midnight,
He slips the thongs that bind him to the tree,
And leaving death with them, bounds home right happily.

XXIII.
Before the mother, bursting through the door,
The redman rushes where her infants rest;
Oh God! he hurls them on the cabin floor!
While she, down kneeling, clasps them to her breast.
How he exults and revels in her woe,
And lifts the weapon, yet delays the blow:
Ha! that report! behold! he reels! he dies!
And quickly to her arms the husband father flies.

XXIV.
In the long winter eve, their cabin fast,
The big logs blazing in the chimney wide
They’d hear the Indian howling, or the blast,
And deem themselves in castellated pride:
Then would the fearless forester disclose
Most strange adventures with his sylvan foes,
Of how his arts did over theirs prevail,
And how he followed far upon their bloody trail.

XXV.
And it was happiness, they said, to stand,
When summer smiled upon them in the wood,
And see their little clearing there expand,
And be the masters of the solitude.
Danger was but excitement; and when came
The tide of Emigration, life grew tame;
Then would they seek some unknown wild anew,
And soon, above the trees, the smoke was curling blue.

XXVI.
Long e’er the pale-face knew them, or their land,
Here, too, the redmen met in the stern strife
Of foe to foe and bloody hand to hand
The mortal agony of life for life:
How fertile is this “dark and bloody ground!”
Here Death has given many a horrid wound!
Here was the victim tortured to the stake,
While dark Revenge stood by, his burning thirst to slake.

XXVII.
Methinks I see it all within yon dell,
Where trembles thro’ the leaves the clear moonlight;
Say, Druid Oak, can’st not the story tell?
Why met they thus? and wherefore did they fight?
And wept his maiden much? and who was he,
Who thus so calmly bore his agony?
Sang he his death song well? was he a chief?
And mourned his nation long in notes of lengthened grief?

XXVIII.
Here, from the woods, he came to woo his mate,
And launched, to meet her, his bark-built canoe:
Who would have thought he had a soul to hate
To see him thus, all gentleness to woo?
In tenderest tone he tells his deeds of war,
With blandest feeling shows the ghastly scar
He joyed to take, that he might win his bride,
His own, his blushing one the dark-eyed by his side.

XXIX.
Again he goes again she looks for him
At the death-stake her warrior-love is tied:
Say, when he thought of her, did the tear swim?
Shook, for an instant, that bold Indian’s pride?
No! when he thought of her, it was to nerve
A soul whose purpose knew not how to swerve!
For this she loves him, holds him doubly dear;
He knows what ’tis to love, but not what ’tis to fear.

XXX.
O, Love what rhymer has not sung of thee?
And, who, with heart so young as his who sings,
Knows not thou art self-burdened as the bee,
Who, loving many flowers, must needs have wings?
Yes, thou art wing’d, O, Love! like passing thought,
That now is with us, and now seems as nought,
Until deep passion stamps thee in the brain,
Like bees in folded flowers that ne’er unfold again.

XXXI.
Who does not love his early dream of love?
The passionate fondness of the happy boy,
When woman’s lightest look the pulse would move
To the wild riot of extatic joy;
The tremulous whisper, mingling hopes and fears,
Her very presence, that so long endears
The spot, on which the mutual vow was giv’n,
The interchange of love, and the on-looking Heav’n.

XXXII.
This is the tale that never tires in telling
If woman listens as ye tell the tale:
And then, to mark her gentle bosom swelling,
And feel the fervor of your faith prevail!
Her tone, the confidence of her bright eye,
That looks to yours its eloquent reply!
And then, her seeming doubt spoke you in vain?
O! no! she only doubts to hear you speak again!

XXXIII.
My Mary! though I yet am young in years,
’Tis like a dream, Love, of the olden time,
When first they coyness yielded up its fears,
And thy warm heart throbbd tremblingly to mine,
When we exchanged the faith we loved to make,
And made the promise it should never break
How happy, then, the future rose to view
Our hearts the auguries that made it seem all true.

XXXIV.
A sense of coldness, like the atmosphere,
When chilled by the rude winter’s snowy blast,
Has passed between us now: and lone and sear,
Like the last autumn leaf that fell at last,
Though on its parent stem it fain would stay,
With days, perchance, as bright as yesterday
Our hopes have fallen yet, my Mary, yet,
There is no lethean power can teach me to forget.

XXXV.
For, in that young affection’s early dream,
There was the presence and the soul of joy,
Which, like the stars, though clouds obscure them, beam
With hues of Heav’n, that earth cannot destroy:
Dark desolation may be o’er our path,
And the fierce lightnings rive it in their wrath,
And scalding tears may weep their sources dry,
Yet, will that love live on, on its own agony.

XXXVI.
E’en like if we its hopes may personate
Fall’n Marius, ’mid the ruins, when he stood
And pondered darkly o’er his desperate fate,
Alone, in th’ o’erthrown City’s solitude.
Oh! we may build a fairy home for love
But, when ’tis blasted, how can we remove?
How from the ruins can the ruined part?
Or how rebuild the hope that, falling, crushed the heart.

XXXVII.
And, mused I now, as that stern exile mused,
’Mid fallen columns, cities overthrown,
With Desolation all around diffused,
I should seem less than I seem now alone
For it would be companionship; but here
There is no sympathy with mortal tear:
The skies are smiling, and the forests rise
In their green glory up, aspirers to the skies!

XXXVIII.
And the wild river, laughing, laves its banks
A babbler like a happy-hearted girl,
Dancing along with free and frolic pranks;
The leaves, o’erhanging, tremble like the curl
That plays upon her forehead as she goes
While ’mid the branches, free from human woes,
The wild bird carols to its happy mate,
Glad in the present hour, nor anxious for its fate.

XXXIX.
But there is one tree blasted ’mid the green,
Surrounding forest; and an eagle, there,
Looks sadly o’er the gaily, glitt’ring scene,
A mourner with his bleeding bosom bare:
No more! no more! he’ll reach his eyry now,
Or sport in triumph o’er the mountain’s brow;
His wing may hide the death-bolt as he dies,
No more shall it expand to bear him to the skies.

XL.
How like the balmy breathing of the spring,
Is the unfolding of Love’s happy morn!
Then our nurst hopes, anticipating, bring
The May-day breaking, that shall bear no thorn:
The thorn must have its birth-day with the rose
When one is blighted, still the other grows,
And grows the keener, as the seared leaves fall,
And rankles in the heart when the storm scatters all.

XLI.
Be blessings on thee, Lady of my love!
As many blessings as thou did’st impart,
When to my breast thou cam’st like a young dove,
And made thy home in my all-happy heart.
Like the loved picture of his buried maid,
Which the sad lover keeps, and weeps the shade,
So Memory, to my early feelings true,
Preserves its passionate love in bidding hope adieu!

XLII.
No! “while there’s life there’s hope,” at least, in love;
Hope that the two shall not be always twain:
Will it not find its home that parted dove
Though severed far o’er mountain and o’er main?
Though night o’ertake it, though the tempests rise,
Alike, through cloudy, and through smiling skies,
Onward it hastens; and, with panting breast,
Nestles at home at last, and loves the more its nest.

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 craggd and sedgy side,
Where the fierce hunter, from the forest dark,
Pursued the wild deer oer 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 Éden’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, unquenchd, and all untamd!
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.

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,
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 cursd 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 flashd 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 bristling 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 lions 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
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 poisnous 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 evenings 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 mannd my spirit on
Who sooth’d me when I lost, and cheer’d me if I won.

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 oer earth, and main, and Heavn
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,
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 oceans 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 Almightys 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.