Oh! 't was a hard, unyielding fate But safe above each coral grave, They knelt them on the desert sand, By waters cold and rude, Alone upon the dreary strand Of oceaned solitude! They looked upon the high blue air, The warrior's red right arm was bared, To seek his home and child? The dark chiefs yelled alarm,—and swore The white man's blood should flow, And his hewn bones should bleach their shore,— Two hundred years ago! But lo! the warrior's eye grew dim, His arm was left alone, The still black wilds that sheltered him, No longer were his own! Time fled, and on the hallowed ground His highest pine lies low, The cities swell where forests frowned, Oh! stay not to recount the tale,- The firmest cheek might well grow pale, The God of heaven, who prospers us, And shield us from the red man's curse, Come then,-great shades of glorious men, We call you from each moldering tomb, To bless the world ye snatched from doom, Then to your harps,—yet louder,—higher, Shout for those godlike men of old, Who, daring storm and foe, On this blest soil their anthem rolled Two hundred years ago! Ex. XCVII.-NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD. ISAAC M'LELLAN, JR. "I shall enter into no encomium upon Massachusetts; she needs none. There she is; behold her, and judge for yourselves.-There is her history. The world knows it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill; and there they will remain for ever. The bones of her sons, falling in the great struggle for independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every state, from New England to Georgia; and there they will remain for ever."-Webster's Speech. NEW ENGLAND's dead! New England's dead! On On every hill they lie; every field of strife made red By bloody victory. Each valley, where the battle poured Its red and awful tide, Beheld the brave New England sword With slaughter deeply dyed. Their bones are on the northern hill, By brook and river, lake and rill, The land is holy where they fought, For by their blood that land was bought, But to their God they gave their prayer, And rushed to battle then. They left the plowshare in the mold, To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe, And where are ye, O fearless men I call: the hills reply again That ye have passed away; ? That on old Bunker's lonely height, In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The bugle's wild and warlike blast The starry flag, 'neath which they fought, In many a bloody day, From their old graves shall rouse them not, Ex. XCVIII.-THE CONVICT SHIP. MORN on the waters!-and purple and bright HERVEY. O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun, Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail, And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the gale; Night on the waves!—and the moon is on high, Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain! A phantom of beauty, could deem, with a sigh, And that souls that are smitten lie bursting within ?— 'Tis thus with our life, while it passes along, Yet chartered by sorrow, and freighted with sighs. Fading and false is the aspect it wears, As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears; And the withering thoughts which the world can not know, Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below; Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore, Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er. Ex. XCIX.-COEUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER*. TORCHES were blazing clear, Hymns pealing deep and slow, Where a king lay stately on his bier, Banners of battle o'er him hung, And warriors slept beneath, MRS. HEMANS. And light, as noon's broad light, was flung On the settled face of death A strong and ruddy glare, Though dimmed, at times, by the censer's breath, As if each deeply-furrowed trace Of earthly years to show,— - Alas! that sceptered mortal's race The marble floor was swept By many a long dark stole, As the kneeling priests round him that slept, Sang mass for the parted soul; And solemn were the strains they poured Through the stillness of the night, With the cross above, and the crown and sword, *The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the Abbey church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Coeur-de-Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitterly reproached himself for that rebellious conduct which had been the means of bringing his father to an untimely grave. |