BLEST land of Judea! thrice hallow'd of song,
Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng;
In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea,
On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee.
With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore,
Where pilgrim and prophet have linger'd before;
With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod
Made bright by the steps of the angels of God.
Blue sea of the hills!-in my spirit I hear
Thy waters, Gennesaret, chime on my ear;
Where the Lowly and Just with the people sat down,
And thy spray on the dust of His sandals was thrown.
Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of green,
And the desolate hills of the wild Gadarene;
And I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor to see
The gleam of thy waters, O, dark Galilee!
Hark, a sound in the valley! where, swollen and
Thy river, O, Kishon, is sweeping along; [strong,
Where the Canaanite strove with JEHOVAH in vain,
And thy torrent grew dark with the blood of the slain.
There, down from his mountains stern ZEBULON
And NAPHTALI's stag, with his eyeballs of flame, And the chariots of JABIN roll'd harmlessly on, For the arm of the LORD was ABINOAM'S SON!
There sleep the still rocks and the caverns which rang
To the song which the beautiful prophetess sang,
When the princes of Issachar stood by her side,
And the shout of a host in its triumph replied.
Lo, Bethlehem's hill-site before me is seen,
With the mountains around and the valleys between;
There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there
The song of the angels rose sweet on the air.
And Bethany's palm trees in beauty still throw
Their shadows at noon on the ruins below;
But where are the sisters who hasten'd to greet
The lowly Redeemer, and sit at His feet?
I tread where the twelve in their wayfaring trod;
I stand where they stood with the chosen of GoD-
Where His blessings was heard and his lessons
were taught,
Where the blind were restored and the healing
O, here with His flock the sad Wanderer cameThese hills HE toil'd over in grief, are the sameThe founts where He drank by the way-side still flow,
And the same airs are blowing which breath'd on his brow!
And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet, [feet;
But with dust on her forehead, and chains on her
For the crown of her pride to the mocker hath gone,
And the holy Shechinah is dark where it shone.
But wherefore this dream of the earthly abode
Of humanity clothed in the brightness of God?
Were my spirit but tuned from the outward and dim, It could gaze, even now, on the presence of HIM! Not in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when, In love and in meekness, He moved among men; And the voice which breathed peace to the waves of the sea,
In the hush of my spirit would whisper to me!
And what if my feet may not tread where He stood,
Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee's flood,
Nor my eyes see the cross which he bow'd him to
bear,
Nor my knees press Gethsemane's
's garden of prayer.
Yet, Loved of the Father, Thy Spirit is near
To the meek, and the lowly, and penitent here;
And the voice of thy love is the same even now,
As at Bethany's tomb, or on Olivet's brow.
O, the outward hath gone!--but, in glory and power,
The Spirit surviveth the things of an hour;
Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame
On the heart's secret altar is burning the same!
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, untravell'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 caroll'd by her cow-
* The village of Haverhill, on the Merrimack, called by the Indians Pentucket, was for nearly seventy years a frontier town, and during thirty years endured all the horrors of savage warfare. In the year 1708, a combined body of French and Indians, under the command of DE CHALLIONS, and HERTEL DE ROUVILLE, the infamous and bloody sacker of Deerfield, made an attack upon the village, which, at that time, contained only thirty houses. Sixteen of the villagers were massacred, and a still larger number made prisoners. About thirty of the enemy also fell, and among them HERTEL DE ROUVIUP. The minister of the place, BENJAMIN ROLFE, was killed by a shot through his own door
From cottage door and household hearth
Rose songs of praise, 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 Merrimack 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 leafless 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-
Sunk the red axe in woman's brain,
And childhood's cry arose in vain-
Bursting through roof and window came,
Red, fast, and fierce, the kindled flame;
And blended fire and moonlight glared
Over dead corse and weapons bared.
The morning sun look'd brightly through
The river-willows, wet with dew.
No sound of combat fill'd the air,
No shout was heard,-nor gun-shot there:
Yet still the thick and sullen smoke
From smouldering ruins slowly broke;
And on the green sward many a stain,
And, here and there, the mangled slain,
Told how that midnight bolt had sped,
Pentucket, on thy fated head!
E'en now, the villager can tell
Where ROLFE beside his hearth-stone fell,
Still show the door of wasting oak
Through which the fatal death-shot broke,
And point the curious stranger where
DE ROUVILLE'Ss corse lay grim and bare-
Whose hideous head, in death still fear'd,
Bore not a trace of hair or beard-
And still, within the churchyard ground,
Heaves darkly up the ancient mound,
Whose grass-grown surface overlies
The victims of that sacrifice.
LINES ON THE DEATH OF S. OLIVER TORREY, OF BOSTON.
GONE before us, O, our brother,
To the spirit-land!
Vainly look we for another
In thy place to stand.
Who shall offer youth and beauty
On the wasting shrine
Of a stern and lofty duty,
With a faith like thine?
O thy gentle smile of greeting
Who again shall see?
Who, amidst the solemn meeting,
Gaze again on thee?—
Who, when peril gathers o'er us,
Wear so calm a brow?
Who, with evil men before us,
So serene as thou?
Early hath the spoiler found thee,
Brother of our love!
Autumn's faded earth around thee,
And its storms above!
Evermore that turf lie lightly,
And, with future showers, O'er thy slumbers fresh and brightly Blow the summer-flowers!
In the locks thy forehead gracing,
Not a silvery streak;
Nor a line of sorrow's tracing
On thy fair, young cheek;
Eyes of light and lips of roses,
Such as HrLAS Wore-
Over all that curtain closes,
Which shall rise no more!
Will the vigil Love is keeping
Round that grave of thine,
Mournfully, like JAZER weeping
Over Sibmah's vine*—
Will the pleasant memories, swelling
Gentle hearts, of thee,
In the spirit's distant dwelling
All unheeded be?
If the spirit ever gazes,
From its journeyings, back;
If the immortal ever traces
O'er its mortal track;
Wilt thou not, O brother, meet us
Sometimes on our way,
And, in hours of sadness, greet us
As a spirit may ?
Peace be with thee, O our brother,
In the spirit-land!
Vainly look we for another
In thy place to stand.
Unto Truth and Freedom giving
All thy early powers,
Be thy virtues with the living,
And thy spirit ours!
"O, vine of Sibmah! I will weep for thee with the weeping of JAZER!"-Jeremiah xlviii. 32.
RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE.
OH, Mother Earth! upon thy lap
Thy weary ones receiving,
And o'er them, silent as a dream,
Thy grassy mantle weaving-
Fold softly in thy long embrace
That heart so worn and broken,
And cool its pulse of fire beneath
Thy shadows old and oaken.
Shut out from him the bitter word
And serpent hiss of scorning;
Nor let the storms of yesterday
Disturb his quiet morning.
Breathe over him forgetfulness
Of all save deeds of kindness,
And, save to smiles of grateful eyes,
Press down his lids in blindness.
There, where with living ear and eye
He heard Potomac's flowing,
And, through his tall ancestral trees
Saw Autumn's sunset glowing,
He sleeps still looking to the west,
Beneath the dark wood shadow,
As if he still would see the sun
Sink down on wave and meadow.
Bard, sage, and tribune!-in himself
All moods of mind contrasting-
The tenderest wail of human wo,
The scorn like lightning blasting;
The pathos which from rival eyes
Unwilling tears could summon,
The stinging taunt, the fiery burst
Of hatred scarcely human!
Mirth, sparkling like a diamond-shower,
From lips of life-long sadness;
Clear picturings of majestic thought
Upon a ground of madness;
And over all, romance and song
A classic beauty throwing,
And laurell'd Clio at his side
Her storied pages showing.
All parties fear'd him: each in turn
Beheld its schemes disjointed,
As right or left his fatal glance
And spectral finger pointed.
Sworn foe of Cant, he smote it down
With trenchant wit unsparing,
And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand
The robe Pretence was wearing.
Too honest or too proud to feign
A love he never cherish'd,
Beyond Virginia's border line
His patriotism perish'd.
While others hail'd in distant skies
Our eagle's dusky pinion,
He only saw the mountain bird
Stoop o'er his Old Dominion!
Still through each change of fortune strange,
Rack'd nerve, and brain all burning,
His loving faith in mother-land
Knew never shade of turning:
By Britain's lakes, by Neva's wave,
Whatever sky was o'er him,
He heard her rivers' rushing sound,
Her blue peaks rose before him.
He held his slaves, yet made withal
No false and vain pretences,
Nor paid a lying priest to seek
For scriptural defences.
His harshest words of proud rebuke,
His bitterest taunt and scorning,
Fell firelike on the northern brow
That bent to him in fawning.
He held his slaves: yet kept the while
His reverence for the human;
In the dark vassals of his will
He saw but man and woman!
No hunter of God's outraged poor
His Roanoke valley enter'd;
No trader in the souls of men
Across his threshold ventured.
And when the old and wearied man
Laid down for his last sleeping,
And at his side, a slave no more,
His brother man stood weeping, His latest thought, his latest breath, To freedom's duty giving, With failing tongue and trembling hand The dying bless'd the living.
Oh! never bore his ancient state
A truer son or braver;
None trampling with a calmer scorn
On foreign hate or favor.
He knew her faults, yet never stoop'd
His proud and manly feeling
To poor excuses of the wrong,
Or meanness of concealing.
But none beheld with clearer eye
The plague-spot o'er her spreading, None heard more sure the steps of Doom Along her future treading.
For her as for himself he spake,
When, his gaunt frame upbracing,
He traced with dying hand, "REMORSE!”*
And perished in the tracing.
As from the grave where Henry sleeps,
From Vernon's weeping willow,
And from the grassy pall which hides
The sage of Monticello,
So from the leaf-strewn burial-stone
Of Randolph's lowly dwelling, Virginia! o'er thy land of slaves
A warning voice is swelling.
And hark! from thy deserted fields
Are sadder warnings spoken,
From quench'd hearths, where thine exiled sons
Their household gods have broken.
The curse is on thee-wolves for men,
And briers for corn-sheaves giving!
Oh! more than all thy dead renown
Were now one hero living!
* See the remarkable statement of Dr. Parrish, his medical attendant.
Look on him-through his dungeon-grate,
Feebly and cold, the morning light
Comes stealing round him, dim and late,
As if it loathed the sight.
Reclining on his strawy bed,
His hand upholds his drooping head-
His bloodless cheek is seam'd and hard,
Unshorn his gray, neglected beard;
And o'er his bony fingers flow
His long, dishevell'd locks of snow.
No grateful fire before him glows,-
And yet the winter's breath is chill:
And o'er his half-clad person goes
The frequent ague-thrill!
Silent-save ever and anon,
A sound, half-murmur and half-groan,
Forces apart the painful grip
Of the old sufferer's bearded lip:
O, sad and crushing is the fate
Of old age chain'd and desolate!
Just Gon! why lies that old man there?
A murderer shares his prison-bed,
Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair,
Gleam on him fierce and red;
And the rude oath and heartless jeer
Fall ever on his loathing ear,
And, or in wakefulness or sleep,
Nerve, flesh, and fibre thrill and creep,
Whene'er that ruffian's tossing limb,
Crimson'd with murder, touches him!
What has the gray-hair'd prisoner done?
Has murder stain'd his hands with gore?
Not so: his crime's a fouler one:
God made the old man poor!
For this he shares a felon's cell-
The fittest earthly type of hell!
For this-the boon for which he pour'd
His young blood on the invader's sword,
And counted light the fearful cost-
His blood-gain'd liberty is lost!
And so, for such a place of rest,
Old prisoner, pour'd thy blood as rain
On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest,
And Saratoga's plain?
Look forth, thou man of many scars,
Through thy dim dungeon's iron bars!
It must be joy, in sooth, to see
Yon monument* uprear'd to thee-
Piled granite and a prison-cell—
The land repays thy service well!
Go, ring the bells and fire the guns,
And fling the starry banner out;
Shout "Freedom!" till your lisping ones
Give back their cradle-shout:
Let boasted eloquence declaim
Of honour, liberty, and fame;
Still let the poet's strain be heard,
With "glory" for each second word,
And every thing with breath agree
To praise our glorious liberty!"
And when the patriot cannon jars
That prison's cold and gloomy wall,
And through its grates the stripes and stars
Rise on the wind, and fall-
Think ye that prisoner's aged ear
Rejoices in the general cheer!
Think ye his dim and failing eye
Is kindled at your pageantry?
Sorrowing of soul, and chain'd of limb,
What is your carnival to him?
Down with the law that binds him thus!
Unworthy freemen, let it find
No refuge from the withering curse
Of God and human kind!
Open the prisoner's living tomb,
And usher from its brooding gloom
The victims of your savage code,
To the free sun and air of Gon!
No longer dare as crime to brand
The chastening of the Almighty's hand!
STREAM of my fathers! sweetly still
The sunset rays thy valley fill;
Pour'd slantwise down the long defile,
Wave, wood, and spire beneath them smile.
I see the winding Powow fold
The green hill in its belt of gold,
And, following down its wavy line,
Its sparkling waters blend with thine.
There's not a tree upon thy side,
Nor rock, which thy returning tide
As yet hath left abrupt and stark
Above thy evening water-mark;
No calm cove with its rocky hem,
No isle whose emerald swells begem
Thy broad, smooth current; not a sail
Bow'd to the freshening ocean-gale;
No small boat with its busy oars,
Nor gray wall sloping to thy shores;
Nor farm-house with its maple shade,
Or rigid poplar colonnade,
But lies distinct and full in sight,
Beneath this gush of sunset light.
Centuries ago, that harbour-bar,
Stretching its length of foam afar,
And Salisbury's beach of shining sand,
And yonder island's wave-smoothed strand,
Saw the adventurer's tiny sail
Flit, stooping from the eastern gale;
And o'er these woods and waters broke
The cheer from Britain's hearts of oak,
As brightly on the voyager's eye,
Weary of forest, sea, and sky,
Breaking the dull, continuous wood,
The Merrimack roll'd down his flood;
Mingling that clear, pellucid brook
Which channels vast Agioochook— .
When spring-time's sun and shower unlock
The frozen fountains of the rock,
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