In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world, — with kings, The powerful of the earth, -the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun; the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between ; The venerable woods; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, and traverse Barca's desert sands; Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings, yet the dead are there, And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down.
the dead reign there alone.
and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man — Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side, By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
HAINED in the market-place he stood,
CHAINE
A man of giant frame,
Amid the gathering multitude
That shrunk to hear his name,
All stern of look and strong of limb, His dark eye on the ground;
And silently they gazed on him, As on a lion bound.
Vainly, but well, that chief had foughtHe was a captive now;
Yet pride, that fortune humbles not,
Was written on his brow:
The scars his dark broad bosom wore Showed warrior true and brave: A prince among his tribe before, He could not be a slave.
Weeps by the cocoa-tree,
And my young children leave their play, And ask in vain for me."
"I take thy gold, but I have made Thy fetters fast and strong,
And ween that by the cocoa shade Thy wife shall wait thee long."
Strong was the agony that shook The captive's frame to hear, And the proud meaning of his look Was changed to mortal fear.
He struggled fiercely with his chain, Whispered, and wept, and smiled;
Yet wore not long those fatal bands,
And once, at shut of day,
They drew him forth upon the sands,
The foul hyena's prey.
NCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encounter'd in the battle-cloud.
Ah! never shall the land forget
How gush'd the life-blood of her brave, Gush'd, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save.
Now all is calm, and fresh, and still; Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine, are heard.
No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain ; Men start not at the battle-cry:
Oh, be it never heard again!
Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life.
A friendless warfare! lingering long Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weapon'd throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.
Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot;
The timid good may stand aloof,
The sage may frown yet faint thou not,
Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born.
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers.
Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When they who help'd thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust
Like those who fell in battle here.
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