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still her gray rocks tower above the sea That crouches at their feet, a conquered wave; 'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree,
Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave; Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold and free,
And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave; And where none kneel, save when to heaven they pray. Nor even then, unless in their own way.
Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong,
A "fierce democracie," where all are true
(If red, they might to Draco's code belong;)
A vestal state, which power could not subdue, Nor promise win-like her own eagle's nest, Sacred-the San Marino of the West.
A justice of the peace, for the time being,
They bow to, but may turn him out next year; They reverence their priest, but disagreeing
In price or creed, dismiss him without fear; They have a natural talent for foreseeing
And knowing all things; and should Park appear
From his long tour in Africa, to show
The Niger's source, they'd meet him with-"We know."
They love their land, because it is their own,
And scorn to give aught other reason why; Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, And think it kindness to his majesty;
A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none.
Such are they nurtured, such they live and die: All-but a few apostates, who are meddling With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling;
Or wandering through the southern countries, teaching
And gaining by what they call "hook and crook,"
A decent living. The Virginians look
But these are but their outcasts. View them near
At home, where all their worth and pride is placed; And there their hospitable fires burn clear,
And there the lowliest farmhouse hearth is graced With manly hearts, in piety sincere,
Faithful in love, in honour stern and chaste, In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave.
And minds have there been nurtured, whose control
Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul,
Whose leaves contain their country's history,
When on that field his band the Hessians fought,
For four pounds eight and sevenpence per man, By England's king; a bargain, as is thought.
Are we worth more? Let's prove it now we can; For we must beat them, boys, ere set of sun, OR MARY STARK'S A WIDOW!" It was done.
Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring,
Of life's best angel, Health, is on her gales
Her clear, warm heaven at noon-the mist that shrouds
Her twilight hills-her cool and starry eves, The glorious splendour of her sunset clouds,
The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves, Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds,
Where'er his web of song her poet weaves; And his mind's brightest vision but displays The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days.
And when you dream of woman, and her love;
The mother smiling in her infant's bower;
Be by some spirit of your dreaming hour
To the green land I sing, then wake, you'll find them there.
ON THE DEATH OF
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE,
OF NEW YORK, SEPT., 1820.
"The good die first,
And they, whose hearts are dry as summer dust,
GREEN be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.
When hearts, whose truth was proven,
And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
It should be mine to braid it
While memory bids me weep thee,
That mourns a man like thee.