Not a man, and yet a man / by A.A. Whitman [electronic text]

POEMS
ON
MISCELLANEOUS
SUBJECTS.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

PEACE.

As the raindrop on a flower When the bow 's behind a shower, As the breeze that fans the forehead Of the sunset, when his cheeks red Nestle on his mountain pillow, Or a sea without a billow; So is Peace's sweet libations, To the bosom of the Nations.

While the Shepherd's lone were tending Flocks by night on Judah's plain; Angels bright above them bending, Trumpeted their sweet refrain:

"Glory be to God in Heaven, Peace on earth, good will to men, To the world a Savior's given, Lo! he comes in Bethlehem.

Then a door in Heaven opened, And a milk-white spirit flew

From the golden portals earthward— And the Nation's journeying thro',

She touched the Conqu'ror's Sword, that thrust Thro' thousand hearts red honors wore; The glitt'ring terror fell before His eyes and crumbled into dust.

She breathed upon the warrior's wreath, And while applauses filled his ears, And earth her tribute paid of tears, His glory withered in her breath.

She stood behind the tyrant's throne; His sceptre vanished from his hand; And lo! he saw on sea and land, His gloomy power was gone.

She fanned the lab'rer's care-worn brow, And sunshine falling from her wing Into his heart, forced him to sing While leaning on his plow.

Then by his cot she turned her flight, And blithe health to the doorway ran, Contentment's sweetest songs began, And all within was light.

HYMN TO THE NATION.

When Science, trembling in the lengthened shade Of monster superstitions, and menaced By raving Bigotry, a dream embraced Of prosperous worlds by mortal unsurveyed, Genoa's seaman and a daring few; Wide Ocean's stormy perils rent and brought her bounds to view.

Who then had thought that with the Eternal mind, That in vast Future's covered bosom bound— Shut up—by these sea-roamers to be found, Was this green home of poor, abused mankind, This land of exiles, and the peaceful borne, Where Babel's scattered tongues shall yet to one great speech return.

Fair Freedom travailed 'neath an unknown sky, And tho' the tyrant shook his envious chain, And tho' the bigot reared a gloomy fane, She bore our darling of the azure eye; Baptized its childhood in brave blood and tears, But trumpted her independence in Great Britian's ears.

Astonished kingdoms heard of the new birth, And royal vengeance drew her warring blade, And bloody strokes upon Columbia laid,

To smite the young offender to the earth; Colonial hardships shivered where she went, And border horrors thro' the years a thrill of sadness sent.

But patriotism bold, sustained the blow, Returning deeper wounds with daring might— For Freedom ever steels the stroke of right—And cool determined Valor's proud arm so Dismayed the imperial hosts, that baffled George Saw he could ne'er enslave the men who withstood Valley Forge.

A century has spun around the wheel Of ages, and the years in noiseless flight Have heaped their golden tributes to the right; Till now religion in her heavenly zeal, To mend life's ills walks hand in hand with lore, Where clank the chains of slaves in Law's offended ears no more.

Here honest labor trembles at the nod Of no despot; and penury no more Must with her gaunt and withered arm implore Scant life, at Charity's closed hands; but God Doth lead the bounteous thousands as a flock, And Peace's happy voices echo from the Nation's Rock.

Tho' at the name Republic tyrants mocked, Columbia has lived a hundred years

Thro' trials, triumphs, hopes, and doubts and fears, And still she lives, tho' often tempest-rocked, Republic yet, united, one and free, And may she live; her name the synonyme of Liberty!

Go forth ye children of the valiant land, Go, sound the timbrel of her praises loud! Ye Alleghenies, in your ascent proud Thro' cloud-surrounded realms, the winds command That revel in your soaring locks, to raise One harmony, and mingle all their hoarsest notes in praise!

Ye Rocky mountains, as with awful glee, Or icy scorn, ye stare against the sun Whose shafts glance harmless your strong front upon, And splintered fall, awake the Western Sea To join the thunders of your snowy reign, And speak responsive to your neighbors tow'ring o'er the plain!

Stride on, thou dread Niagara, stride on! Thou lord of waters, in thy mighty wrath, And thy earth rocking leap into the bath Of thunders, stride on! Omnipotent, alone! And from thy stony lungs her praises sound, Till Mexic's potent Sea reply and Oceans shout around!

THE LUTE OF AFRIC'S TRIBE.

To the memory of Dr. J. McSimpson, a colored Author of Anti-Slavery Ballads. Written for the Zanesville, O., Courier.

When Israel sate by Babel's stream and wept, The heathen said, "Sing one of Zion's songs;" But tuneless lay the lyre of those who slept Where Sharon bloomed and Oreb vigil kept; For holy song to holy ears belongs.

So, when her iron clutch the Slave power reached, And sable generations captive held; When Wrong the gospel of endurance preached; The lute of Afric's tribe, tho' oft beseeched, In all its wild, sweet warblings never swelled.

And yet when Freedom's lispings o'er it stole, Soft as the breath of undefiled morn, A wand'ring accent from its strings would stroll— Thus was our Simpson, man of song and soul, And stalwart energies, to bless us born.

When all our nation's sky was overcast With rayless clouds of deepening misery, His soaring vision mounted thro' the blast, And from behind its gloom approaching fast, Beheld the glorious Sun of Liberty.

He sang exultant: "Let her banner wave!" And cheering senates, fired by his zeal, Helped snatch their country from rebellion's grave Looked through brave tears upon the injured slave, And raised the battle-arm to break his gyves of steel.

But hushed the bard, his harp no longer sings The woes and longings of a shackled mind; For death's cold fingers swept its trembling strings, And shut the bosom of its murmurings Forever on the hearing of mankind.

The bird that dips his flight in noonday sun, May fall, and spread his plumage on the plain; But when immortal mind its work hath done On earth, in heaven a nobler work 's begun, And it can never downward turn again.

Of him, whose harp then, lies by death unstrung— A harp that long his lowly brethren cheered, May'nt we now say, that, sainted choirs among, An everlasting theme inspires his tongue, Where slaves ne'er groan, and death is never feared?

Yes, he is harping on the "Sea of glass," Where saints begin, and angels join the strain; While Spheres in one profound, eternal bass, Sing thro' their orbs, illumined as they pass, And constellations catch the long refrain.

TO THE STUDENT.

Who flees the regions of the lower mind, Where these distempers breathe on every wind: Infectious dogmatisms, noxious hate, Old snarly spleen, and troublesome debate, Dull bigotry, and stupid ignorance, Proud egotism, empty arrogance, And famous hollowness, and brilliant woe—And would to knowledge's high places go, Must first in humble prayer approach the Throne Of the Almighty Mind, and there make known The purposes that swell an honest heart; Then on the path before him, meekly start: Asking of others who have been that way, What of the country, and what of the day? Being certain ever to give earnest heed To where the steps of hoar experience lead. Mark him who ventures these means to despise, And tho' his works in gloomy grandeur rise, Awe strike all earth, and threaten e'en the skies; Yea, "tho' he flourish like a green bay tree," His life will a stupeduous [sicstupendous] failure be. Tis vain to soar aloft on borrowed wing, Or drink success from favor's flowing spring. Let him who journeys upward, learn the way,

By toiling step by step, and day by day. Each hardship mounted, easier makes the next, And leaves his pathway by one less perplext. Lo! where yon dreamer looks on glory's hill, Hopes to ascend without the manly will, Bends round and round some open pass to try With easy access, and ascend on high; Waits for some helper till the day is past, And night o'ertakes a sycophant at last. But honest courage, see with manful strides, Walks on and enters at the steepest sides, Climbs long and slowly up his rugged path, Awaits no aid, relies on what he hath, Grows independent as his way proceeds, As progress roughens, less the distance heeds, Till lo! the utmost hights his footsteps meet, With fames and fortunes lying at his feet. Then Kings delight to honor Glory's son, And loud applauses in his footsteps run. Then mankind crave the favor of his eyes, And heap his lasting tributes to the skies.

Written for the Zanesville (O.,) Courier.

CUSTAR'S LAST RIDE.

Forth on the fatal morn, Proud as the waves of Horn Rode the cavalier; Followed by gallant men, Far in a rocky glen To disappear.

"Halt!" bands of Sioux are seen O'er all the dark raine, Crouched in numbers vast; "Halt!" and a hush, "Prepare!" "Charge!" and the very air Starts at the blast.

Long waves of horsemen break, And hoofy thunders wake On the steep glen sides. Back roll the columns brave, Back in a smoky grave, Each hero rides.

"Ready!" their chieftain cries, Steady his eagle eyes Sweep the dark ground o'er. Slowly the lines re-form,

Slowly returns the storm,Yet dreadful more.

"Charge!" is the proud command, Onward the daring band Like a torrent dash; On heaving gorges long, On groaning rocks among, With tempest crash.

Up from their ferny beds Dart fields of pluming heads, As if hideous earth, Out of her rocky womb, Out of an army's tomb, Doth give them birth.

"Rally!" but once is heard, "Rally!" and not a word, The brave boys rallying, speak. Lightnings of valiant steel Flash fast; the columns reel, Bend—reel and break!

"Stand!" cries their Custar proud, "Stand!" in the battle cloud Echoes high around. Answers the sabre's stroke, Tho' in black waves of smoke His fair form 's drown'd.

Firece hordes of painted braves Melt down, for well behave Horse and cavalier: As round their chief they fall, Cheered by his clarion call, From front to rear.

No more their leader calls, Pierced 'mid his men he falls, But sinks breathing, "Stand!" And where the hero lies, Each soldier till he dies, Fights hand to hand.

SONNET.—THE MONTENEGRIN.

Undaunted watcher of the mountain track, Tho' surging cohorts like a sea below, Against thy cliff-walled homes their thunders throw; Proud, whilst thy rocky fastness answers back The fierce, long menace of the Turk's attack, Thy eagle ken above the tumult flies,

The hostile plain spurns, and its prowess black, And lights on strongholds terraced in the skies; There thou wilt quicker than the roe-buck bound, If bolder dangers mount to force thy pass; But not till thou a signal brave hast wound, That hears responses from each peak around, And calls thy comrade clans-in-arms, to mass In high defence, when battle stern begins— Then who can conquer the Montenegrins?

SOLON STILES. Humorous.

To town one day rode Solon Stiles, O'er weary roads and rocky miles, And thro' long lanes, whose dusty breath, Did nearly smother him to death; By ragged fences, old and brown, And thro' great tall woods up and down.

Wide orchards robed in red and white, Were singing on his left and right; The forests carroled by his way, The grass was chirping, green and gay, And wild flow'rs, sweetest of their race,

Like country maids of bashful face, Peeped thro' the briery fences nigh, With bright hues in each timid eye. The farm cows whisked in their cool nook, And splashed within their peaceful brook; And on his fence, beneath the shade, The plow boy's pipe shrill music made.

Stiles saw all this, but what cared he, When he was going the town to see? The country he had always seen, But into town had never been. So on he rode, with head on high, And great thoughts roaming thro' the sky, Not caring what he trotted by.

A little mule he sat astride, With ropes for stirrups o'er him tied, In which huge boots, as red as clay— Red as a fox, some folks would say— Swung loosely down, and dangled round, As if in hopeless search of ground.

At first, when from the woods he rode, And high in sight his small mule trode, Rough seas of smoke rolled on his eye, Great dizzy houses reared on high, With steeples banging in the sky, Then Solon stopped and said, "Umph, my!"

And next, a river deep and wide, With houses floating up its tide He met, and paused again to look, And then to move on undertook. And spurred and spurred, but looked around, And lo! in deep amazement found His small mule stuck, and as he spurred The more, the thing's ears only stirred. "Hullo!" a swarm of blubbies cried, "Whip on the critter's hairy side!" At this the mule insulted grew, Took up its ears, and fairly flew, Till near a great white bride it drew.

Across the bridge rode Solon Stiles, By dusty shops and lumber piles, And where tall houses o'er him stood, Like cliffs within his native wood. And furnaces with firey tongues, And smoky throats and iron lungs, Like demons coughed, and howled, and roared, And fire from out their bowels poured.

Now on and on, up Sailor street, The donkey whirled his rattling feet, While either sidewalk loud upon A swarm of oaths were chorused on. One tall boy, in this surging sea

Of rags and young profanity, High o'er the rest, on awkward shanks, Like stilts, led on the swelling ranks. His deep throat like a fog horn blew, Till lesser blasts their aid withdrew.

Then Stiles communed thus with his mule: "My! listen what a cussin' school This town lets out to fill the ears Of God with! My! them babies swears!" Meanwhile there came a light brigade, To at the donkey's heels parade, Till up before and then behind, His honor flew and then combined, An old Dutch waltz and new quick-step, That half a square of urchins swept, As fast as leaves were ever seen, Brushed by a whirlwind from the green.

The tall commander now in front, Led oathing, as his pride was wont, The new assault, when stock still stood The mule away not half a rood; For lo! with tomahawk in hand, Before a neighb'ring cigar stand, He saw a savage; to describe A chieftain of some bloody tribe. At Solon straight he raised a blow

And strained with all his might to throw, But stayed his rage, for he beheld, That with hot rage the donkey swelled.

Ah! Solon felt his blood run cold, For oft his gran'dad him had told Of Indians in an early day, Beside the bockwoods cotter's way, Skulking to on some settler fly, And scalp him ere he'd time to die. "Throw if you dare!" aloud he cried, And slid down at his donkey's side. At this he saw the savage stare, And forthwith threw his coat off there. With club in hand, the first he found, Then on the foe at one great bound He flew, and hard began to pound; When thus abroad-brimmed vender fat, Began to interview the spat: "Vat vas-yer dun, yer grazy ding; Schoost schtop, yer petter don't py jing! Schoost vat yer broke my zine mit, aye, Eh! petter yer don't, yer go avay!"

"Well!" Solon thought, "If this is town, I'll give you leave to knock me down If I ain't lost; no, this ain't me,

No, town ain't what it seems to be, Yes, here I am, and this is me, But town 's not what it seems to be!"

THE THUNDER STORM.

Lo! how the Heavens ponder now, They look so still and moody! And every leaf, and every bough, Are in a dark deep study.

The very air has hushed its breath, And pauses in its hushing, To hear the clouds that still as death, Are out of darkness rushing.

The lightnings in their vivid wrath, The waving hills a starting, Deep thro' the cloud-sea cleave a path, From shore to shore a darting,

Loud thunders roll within the flood, And night peers on with wonder, And seems to sigh, in pensive mood, And whisper, "hear it thunder!"

Again the thunders shriek aloud, Far o'er the distance roaring, And now from every breaking cloud, The sluicy floods are pouring.

Upon the roof, the dancing drops Come down with splash and clatter, The lightnings glare, their music stops— Now louder 'gins to patter;

As if to catch its breath, the rain Were, when it thundered, pausing, Then rushing on to make again The time it had been losing.

TO BABY'S CANARY, ACCIDENTALLY KILLED.

Thou tiny cheer, So welcome wast thou here, Coming to our home with baby bright, To make our hearts glad, and our burdens light; We hoped that thou and he Would merry playmates be.

Thy voice, sweet bird, And baby's chirp we heard, But only knew that both must happy be, But how much happier were both, thought we, If thou wast older grown, And baby thee had known!

Now baby sweet, Looks at thy little feet, And holds thy fallen plume in his wee hands; Thy mournful fate, it seems he understands. Oh! we are sad to see Him gaze at us—then thee!

THE DESERTED ROAD.

Away thro' the blue distant hills, Thou windest, deserted old Road; By farm houses brown and gray mills And log huts, the woodman's abode.

Since enterprise with iron speed, Steams on over mountain and plain, Industry of thee hath no need, And leaves thee washed red by the rain.

But such was not always the case, For yonder where wanes the ago, Loud Travel with bright, hopeful face, Rolled over thee proudly but slow.

Then rudeness with plenty was blest, And health was the consort of toil; Then "far as the East from the West," Was business from panic's turmoil.

But fast times have lured with great shows, The simple from certainty's shore, To where wealth into wealth only flows, And scorns the bare hands of the poor.

Alas! since we all can't be rich, Allow the poor poverty's ways; Contentment will bring all that which Wealth finds in her wasteful displays.

The orbit too great for the sphere, Speeds motion too fast or too slow; Let poverty learn to dwell where Fair Plentitude's hilltops are low.

Ambition deceives with a smile, Those who in the gust of the times, Instead of the sure calm of toil, Would rush into wealth-blooming climes.

To speed on thro' life's a mistake, To reach our desires too soon; The charm of expecting will break, And bring on our night before noon.

Our pleasures reaped singly are best, More lasting by far gathered slow; The fields in sweet flowers are drest, That come in their seasons—then grow.

The many old pleasures that die, Make but the sparse new that remain, Which none but proud fortune can buy, While nothing the poor can retain.

We want on the wasting old Road, To wake dusty travel once more, To people each wayside abode, And drive business up to each door.

Written for the Zanesville (O.,) Courier.

OLD ABE, THE WAR EAGLE OF WISCONSIN.

Heard ye of "Old Abe," the war eagle who went From his home by the Lakes to the far sunny coasts, To share the brave fortunes of that regiment Which numbered the Eighth in Wisconsin's proud hosts?

When army clouds mingled in that civil storm Which hung o'er the Nation in deep low'ring gloom, Above a horizon of breastworks his form, The emblem of Liberty, proudly did plume.

Away in the dimness of uncertain strife He spread his bold flight towards Victory's sky— Tho' treason smote hard at the National life— And soared to her parapets looking on high.

From whence mangled Slavery, low at the feet Of proud stamping battle, he stooped then to spurn, And homeward flew back with the brave boys to meet The loved ones who wainted [sicwaited? wanted?] to hail their return.

Written for the Zanesville (O.,) Courier.

PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY.

When first the young year inhales the sweetened air, And painted landscapes kiss her tender feet, The constant throat of music everywhere Is burdened with her meed of praises sweet.

The clear brook panting from the ivied steep, A crystal tribute sings within the dell; And in the branchy wood secluded deep Soft echo marks the sounds that please her well.

Till blooming Summer drops her latest charms, Contentment tunes her reed in labor's ear; Till russet plenty crowns the joyous farms, The tongue of greetings hails the jovial year.

But when the sullen North begins to wail, Old friends forsake her, leaving one by one; Till all untended in her leafless vale, The naked year is left to die alone.

Then saddened blasts convey her snowy bier, And only blustry storm above her weeps, While mournful woods attempt a feeble cheer, And cold drear suns but glance at where she sleeps.

Written for the Zanesville (O.,) Courier.

A DREAM OF GLORY.

True glory on the earth is seldom seen, Tho' sought by many with a jealous eye; For where the heavenly birth has ever been, The heedless footsteps of the world pass by.

The fairest blooms are born of humble weeds, That faint and perish in the pathless wood; And out of bitter life grow noble deeds, To pass unnoticed in the multitude.

But reared by care, within the garden neat, Luxuriant chances beautify the whole; While poison lurks beneath each painted sweet, And shoots a sorrow thro' the admiring soul.

Poor homeless hearts, unpitied by mankind, And fortunes shattered in the adverse blast, Are signals that have marked the march of mind, Through boasted civ'lization's glorious past.

The dauntless will that scorns threat'ning defeat, And breaks thro' penury's strong prison bars; Can plant on triumphs proud his tow'ring feet, And walk a shining highway to the stars.

MORTON.

Freedom, thy son is dead! Once more the solemn tread Of the long, slow cortege echoes to throbs Of a nation's heart, and a great people's sobs Around their leader's bier, Burst on the sorrowing ear. The lips of mirth are still, And the eyes of beauty fill With big tears; The voice of love is low, The hands of trade move slow, And toil wears A deep grief on his brow. The tongues of sad bells cleaving To the roofs of their mouths speak not; And music's bosom heaving Beneath its burden is silent.

Fair Indiana weeps, The central mourner of a group of States, That come with tears to shed Around the mighty dead. Alas! poor Indiana! Too late in him who sleeps, Thou see'st a noble son,

So soon "worn out" and done! His voice is hushed forever in thy gates. Alas! poor Indiana! Now is a time for memory and tears, And lessons that fall from the lips of years. Sit down in the shadow that like a dark pall From this sad event doth over thee fall, With a hand on thy heart, and a hand on thy head, And mourn the great loss in the glorious dead. Thou hast sisters who may with thee mourn, But none for thee, for none thy loss have borne.

Now is a time for reflection.A star has gone down.But the light that shone, Yet lingers on our sight; And we turn in the direction In which we last saw it going, And pensively pause, scarce knowing That all around is night.

Weep for Indiana! Ye her sisters who gave Our flag an arm of help in peril's hour: And raised the injured slave From iron heeled oppression's galling power. Weep, States, for Indiana! Her Morton saved her, when she strove the awful leap

Into Rebellion's vortex dread to take.The rocky jaws of ruin gaping deepBeneath, began her head to dizzy make; And wild hallucinations that did rise From slavery's hell of wrongs had sealed her eyes To danger; on the brink a moment, lost To Freedom's sweet entreating voice, she tossed Her tresses back, and in fair frenzy gazed Upon our glorious flag; a mad cry raised, And sprang for death; but seized by her great son, Who to the awful rescue swift had run, And forced in herculean arms away, She mourns him, clothed in her right mind to-day.

Toll the bells for a nation's sorrow, Toll slow, toll slow! Chant songs of a people's sorrow, Chant low, chant low.Behold the great man borne Towards the waiting tomb!Open earth! Give him room! Environed in the gloom That lowers, mourn, people! mourn! And with the solemn boom Of cannon, and the knells Of sad sorrowing bells, Proclaim, proclaim his doom!

His glory was to serve his State— She gave him none;—he was born great. In his country's woe he found his own, His weal in his country's weal, Self in his great works never was known— A patriot true as steel. Born to rule, he knew the reins, And knew the rod, and spared no pains In using either, when they need be. As restless as the uncontented sea, He knew no stand still. Stronger forever growing he Was in man will. He was the lion who could awe the weak By lying still in massive dread reserve, Or fly upon the strong opposer's neck With scornful glare, and blows of iron nerve. And sun ne'er looked upon a day, Since our Republic tore away Her arms from Britain's clutch, That would not have seen him in front, As in our times his life was wont; The elements were such In him, and so combined Were all the powers of his vast mind. His was no warrior's wreath— He not on cannon's breath

O'er red fields rode to death And immortality; But strong for liberty He rose in dreadful might— Dreadful because of right— And with the weapons bright That genius gave her favorite son, He dealt dismay and death to foes Far mightier than those Who dare the flash of steel and reeking gun.

When human slav'ry struggled to extend Its snaky coil round California's coasts, And thro' our trembling land from end to end, Flaunting Secession made his open boasts, He met the hissing wrong, And cool, and brave, and strong, Drove back its forked tongue.

When loyal heads hung down, 'Neath mad opinion's frown, And tongues more fearful froze; His was to oppose With clearest words of stone, Hewn from the loyal block, Whose meaning always known, With true energy thrown, Smote like the rock.

When freedom's columns waved, And friends of the enslaved Aghast fell back, His courage knew no lack— He hurried to the van, The thickest dangers braved, And e'er the battle saved; So nobly he behaved— The cause lived in the man. He could endure, rebuke, compel, entreat, Forbear, defy, but could not know defeat.

First always in the right, Doing with all his might, And last to yield the fight, His friends learned to depend upon him, And his foes feared to rush upon him, And both joined to wonder at him, And slander ceased to thunder at him, And envy ceased to sneak behind him, And everywhere applause would find him, Till rumor held her speech before him; And now he's gone, we all adore him.

Two there were who fought Our struggles dire; One in the battle's hell, Met by destruction's yell,

And the death rain of shot and shell,For his country strove; One the great work of love With his mind's arms wrought. While war in the far-off South Mowed fields of death at the cannon's mouth; His breath of fire and hail Was not more dreadful that [sicthan] the wail Of want in the North, whose shiv'ring blast, To mothers' hearts, and children's homes laid waste.

When the disconsolate East was blowing, And not a spray nor leaf of cheer was flowing With life's heavy stream; And when the harsh skies hissing, snowing, And low and dark and sullen growing, Extinguished sun's last gleam. When little bare foot want was going From door to door; Her withered empty hands a showing, Her eyes running o'er— Telling of a father dead,Who for his country had bled; And of a sick mother's bed, Begging a crumb of bread; When wretchedness her bare arms throwing Around her children, looked thro' tears And murmured in her country's ears

To help her in her sore distress Feed those the war left fatherless; When this hour came, the darkest hour That e'er upon our flag did lower, God called His man, as best He knows, God called His man, and Morton rose. Like some vast cliff whose tow'ring form Awe, strikes but shelters from the storm, He rose, to us a strong defense, A tow'r of help, and good immense.

With Indiana on his back, Her Legislature off the track, And half the members pulling back, He rose, the awful advocate, And on the right road dragged his State. Tho' wealth hugged his Secession gold, And with a nod the weak controlled, Things had to move when he took hold, And shook to life the feeble souled.

Statesman, patriot, sire, bear him away; Inter him with a nation's honors to-day! He has seized slavery with fearless hands, And thrown her gloomy castle from the sands, His blows of massive wisdom strong, Have hurled to earth the tow'ring wrong, But 'neath its falling columns crushed,

His matchless voice in death is hushed. Beauty, cover him with flowers of his native shore. Valor, with unfading laurels cover him o'er. Freedmen, bring your tears, And till life's last years Reach the echoless shore, Tell his great deeds o'er. And soldiers, wherever our standard flies; Or where thou goest neath foreign skies, Behold thy friend in death low lies! Friend when you fronted the battle, Friend when the cannon's rattle Mowed a harvest of death, Friend when "worn out" you reeled Home from the bloody field To rest beneath An humble shed, Scanty of comfort, scanty of bread— Weep for him soldiers! Weep for your friend! And forget not till your lives shall end, To honor the noble dead.

YE BARDS OF ENGLAND.

England, cannot thy shores boast bards as great, And hearts as good as ever blest a State? When arts were rude and literature was young, And language faltered with an uncouth tongue; When science trembled on her little hight, And poor religion blundered on in night; When song on Rome's vast tomb, or carved in Greek, Like epitaphs with marble lips did speak, Thy Chaucer singing with the Nightingales, Poured forth his heart in Canterbury tales, With rude shell scooped from English pure, and led The age that raised the muses from the dead.

And gentle Thompson, to thy mem'ry dear, Awake his lyre and sang the rolling year. The dropping shower the wild flower scented mead, The sober herds that in the noon shade feed, The fragrant field, the green and shady wood, The winding glen, and rocky solitude, The smiles of Spring and frowns of Winter gray, Alike employed his pure and gentle lay. The wrath of gods, and armies dread suspense, Celestial shouts and shock of arms immense, In all his song ne'er move us to alarm, But earth's pure sounds and sights allure and charm.

To Missolonghi's chief of singers too, Unhappy Byron is a tribute due. A wounded spirit, mournful and yet mad, A genius proud, defiant, gentle, sad. 'Twas he whose Harold won his Nation's heart, And whose Reviewers made her fair cheeks smart; Whose uncurbed Juan hung her head for shame, And whose Mazzeppa won unrivaled fame. Earth had no bound for him. Where'er he strode His restless genius found no fit abode. The wing'd storm and the lightning tongued Jungfrau, Unfathomable Ocean, and the awe Of Alpine shades, the avalanche's groan, The war-rocked empire and the falling throne, Were toys his genius played with. Britain, then Urn Byron's dust—a prodigy of men. But Shakspeare, the inimitable boastOf everybody and of every coast; The man, whose universal fitness meets Response in every heart of flesh that beats, No tongue can tell him. One must feel his hand And see him in his plays, to understand. All thought to him intuitively's known, The prate of clowns, and wisdoms of the throne, The sophist's puzzles and the doctor's rules, The skill of warriors and the cant of fools. When Shakespeare wrote, the tragic muse saw heights, Before nor since ne'er tempted in her flights.

THE GREAT STRIKE.

"Strike! Strike! Stop! Stop!" What mean these shouts that rise— This great commotion throughout all the land, That chills the circling life of enterprise, While lawlessness stalks forth with torch in hand?

The hands of Industry have to the head (Aweary grown of swinging to and fro) Without discretion's sober forethought said: "We ought to be above, and you below."

Whenever Communism's snaky head Is raised against the heel of Capital, I want it crushed 'neath Law's majestic tread, And yet would heed poor honest labor's call.

The cold long Winter fast is coming on, His near approach makes sad the leafless year, And deep snows soon the naked fields upon, Will hush the voice of Autumn's latest cheer.

The burdened year will soon her treasures yield, And pile our spacious barns from eaves to floor, Then vagrant want in lanes and open field, Can gather scanty sustenance no more.

The howling winds will drive before them then, This drifting dust of Fortune's feet in clouds; And hither thither into ditch and den Mis'ry and crime will rush in babbling crowds.

But while the desp'rate curse, while lewdness cries, And shiftlessness ought justly to go bare, Forget it not, full many a Lazarus lies Before thy gate and needs a crumb of care.

While Wealth across his lordly arm will cast The warmth of scores of God Almighty's poor, Still houseless want must shiver in the blast, And childhood's feet go bare from door to door.

While pride upon her easy finger wears The bread of thousands in a brilliant stone, The eyes of Wretchedness must stream with tears, And groaning labor be content to groan.

Let heaven's light upon our nature shine, Till ev'ry opaque spot with glory beams, And want no longer at our feet can pine, But happiness will flow in living streams.

THE TRAMP'S SOLILOQUY.

Had I an envied name and purse of gold, My friends were more than all my wants twice told; Reduced to rags and born of title small, Vast tho' my wants I have no friends at all. Anxiety consumes away my years And failure melts my manhood down in tears. My down-cast eyes some guilt seem to disclose And I'm shut in a lazar house of woes. I am not what I was, my drooping form Partakes of what is loathsome in the worm. Pittied but not respected I may be, I shun myself, and e'en the dogs shun me. The rich to chide the poor may adulate The few torn pleasures of a scanty state; But cold experience tells her story plain, Want breeds with bitterness and brings forth pain.

A HINT.

Who seeks to show another's fault will find In self a greater shown, But he that is to faults of others blind, But covers thus his own.