BY OLIVER W. HOLMES.
Ay, tear her tatter'd ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle-shout,
And burst the cannon's roar ;
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more!
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquish'd foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquer'd knee;
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!
O, better that her shatter'd hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,—
The lightning and the gale!
* Written when it was proposed to break up the frigate Constitu
tion, as unfit for service.
COME, hoist the sail, the fast let go!
They're seated side by side;
Wave chases wave in pleasant flow:
The bay is fair and wide.
The ripples lightly tap the boat.
Loose!-give her to the wind!
She shoots ahead:-They're all afloat:
The strand is far behind.
No danger reach so fair a crew!
Thou goddess of the foam,
I'll ever pay thee worship due,
If thou wilt bring them home.
Fair ladies, fairer than the spray
The prow is dashing wide,
Soft breezes take you on your way,
Soft flow the blessed tide!
O, might I like those breezes be,
And touch that arching brow,
I'd toil for ever on the sea
Where ye are floating now.
The boat goes tilting on the waves;
The waves go tilting by ;
There dips the duck;—her back she laves;
O'er head the sea-gulls fly.
Now, like the gulls that dart for prey,
The little vessel stoops;
Now rising, shoots along her way,
Like them, in easy swoops.
The sun-light falling on her sheet,
It glitters like the drift
Sparkling in scorn of summer's heat,
High up some mountain rift.
The winds are fresh; she's driving fast
Upon the bending tide,
The crinkling sail, and crinkling mast,
Go with her side by side.
Why dies the breeze away so soon?
Why hangs the pennant down?
The sea is glass; the sun at noon.
-Nay, lady, do not frown;
For, see, the winged fisher's plume
Is painted on the sea:
Below, a cheek of lovely bloom,
-Whose eyes look up at thee?
She smiles; thou needs must smile on her.
And, see, beside her face
A rich, white cloud that doth not stir.—
What beauty, and what grace!
And pictured beach of yellow sand,
And peaked rock, and hill,
Change the smooth sea to fairy land.—-
How lovely and how still!
From that far isle the thresher's flail
Strikes close upon the ear;
The leaping fish, the swinging sail
Of yonder sloop sound near.
BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.
How sweetly on the wood-girt town
The mellow light of sunset shone !
Each small, bright lake, whose waters still
Mirror the forest and the hill,
Reflected from its waveless breast,
The beauty of a cloudless west,
Glorious as if a glimpse were given
Within the western gates of Heaven,
Left, by the spirit of the star
Of sunset's holy hour, ajar!
Beside the river's tranquil flood
The dark and low-wall'd dwellings stood,
Where many a rood of open land
Stretch'd up and down on either hand,
With corn-leaves waving freshly green.
The thick and blacken'd stumps between ;
Behind, unbroken, deep and dread,
The wild, untravel'd forest spread,
Back to those mountains, white and cold,
Of which the Indian trapper told,
Upon whose summits never yet
Was mortal foot in safety set.
Quiet and calm, without a fear
Of danger darkly lurking near,
The weary labourer left his plough—
The milk-maid carol'd by her cow-
From cottage-door and household hearth
Rose songs of joy or tones of mirth.
At length the murmur died away,
And silence on that village lay.—
So slept Pompeii, tower and hall,
Ere the quick earthquake swallow'd all,
Undreaming of the fiery fate
Which made its dwellings desolate,
Hours pass'd away. By moonlight sped
The Merrimac along his bed.
Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood
Dark cottage-wall, and rock and wood,
Silent, beneath that tranquil beam,
As the hush'd grouping of a dream.
Yet on the still air crept a sound-
No bark of fox-no rabbit's bound-
No stir of wings-nor waters flowing-
Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing,
Was that the tread of many feet,
Which downward from the hill-side beat?
What forms were those which darkly stood
Just on the margin of the wood?
Charr'd tree-stumps in the moonlight dim,
Or paling rude, or lifeless limb?
No-through the trees fierce eyeballs glow'd,
Dark human forms in moonshine show'd,
Wild from their native wilderness,
With painted limbs and battle-dress!
A yell, the dead might wake to hear,
Swell'd on the night air, far and clear-
Then smote the Indian tomahawk
On crashing door and shattering lock-
Then
rang the rifle-shot-and then
The shrill death-scream of stricken men
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