There's firmness in its even light, Some drops of grief will freely start; But that which sears the quiet eye Hath its deep fountain in the heart. SONG OF THE HEMPSEED. Ar, scatter me well, 'tis a moist spring day, Man shall carefully gather me up, His hand shall rule and my form shall change, Not as a mate for the purple of state, Nor into aught that is "rich and strange." But I will come forth all woven and spun, With my fine threads curl'd in serpent length, And the fire-wrought chain, and the lion's thick mane, Shall be rivall'd by me in mighty strength. I have many a place in the busy world, Of triumph and fear, of sorrow and joy; I carry the freeman's flag unfurl'd, I am link'd to childhood's darling toy. Then scatter me wide, and hackle me well, For a varied tale can the hempseed tell. Bravely I swing in the anchor ring Where the foot of the proud man cometh not, Where the dolphin leaps, and the sea-weed creeps O'er the rifted sand and coral grot. Down, down below I merrily go When the huge ship takes her rocking rest; The waters may chafe, but she dwelleth as safe As the young bird in its woodland nest. I wreathe the spars of that same fair ship Where the gallant sea-hearts cling about, Springing aloft with a song on the lip, Putting their faith in the cordage stout. I am true when the blast sways the giant mast, I abide with the bark, in the day and the dark, Sons of evil, bad and bold, Madly ye live and little ye reck, Till I am noosed in a coiling fold Ready to hug your felon neck. The yarn is smooth and the knot is sure, Yet when does the halter hitch or break? But what think ye of me, 'neath the gibbet-tree, Dangling high in the hangman's grasp? Oh, a terrible thing does the hempseed seem Twixt the hollow floor and stout cross-beam ? The people rejoice, the banners are spread; From trellis'd porch and gothic wall; [shake Gaily they laugh when I am found, The sunshine falls on a new-made grave? The poor man has come to the happiest home, I shall be there to lower him down I shall be there, the work to share, To guard his feet, and cradle his head. I may be seen on the hillock green, Flung aside with the bleaching skull, While the earth is thrown with worm and bone, Till the sexton has done, and the grave is full. Back to the gloomy vault I'm borne, Leaving coffin and nail to crumble and rust, There I am laid with the mattock and spade, Moisten'd with tears and clogg'd with dust: Oh, the hempseed cometh in doleful shape, With the mourner's cloak and sable crape. Harvest shall spread with its glittering wheat; The barn shall be open'd, the stack shall be piled; Ye shall see the ripe grain shining out from the wain, And the berry-stain'd arms of the gleaner-child. Heap on, heap on, till the wagon-ribs creak, Let the sheaves go towering to the sky, I will fetter the rolling load; On the furrow'd field or jolting road: My threads are set in the heaving net, Out with the fisher-boy far at sea, While he whistles a tune to the lonely moon, And trusts for his morrow's bread to me. Toiling away through the dry summer-day, Round and round I steadily twist, And bring from the cell of the deep old well What is rarely prized but sorely miss'd. In the whirling swing-in the peg-top string, There am I, a worshipp'd slave, On ocean and earth I'm a goodly thing, I serve from the play-ground to the grave. I have many a place in the busy world, Of triumph and fear, of sorrow and joy; I carry the freeman's flag unfurl'd, And am link'd to childhood's darling toy: Then scatter me wide, and hackle me well, And a varied tale shall the hempseed tell. WASHINGTON. LAND of the west! though passing brief On history's wide page! Let all the blasts of fame ring out- Let others boast their satellites- Thou hast a name whose characters A war-cry fit for any land Where freedom's to be won. Land of the west! it stands aloneIt is thy Washington! Rome had its Cæsar, great and brave; Though lofty they might soar, Were spread in false ambition's flight, And dipp'd in murder's gore. Those hero-gods, whose mighty sway Who, though their kindred barr'd the path, He fought, but not with love of strife, And ere he turn'd a people's foe, The challenge-sword to sword. He stood the firm, the calm, the wise He show'd no deep, avenging hate- No car of triumph bore him through, With strong and high disdain, He saved his land, but did not lay That thrust me from thy shore, And faltering my breath, that sigh'd, "Farewell for evermore!" But did I meet such adverse lot, Away, thou gallant ship! I'd cry, But bear me from my own fair land, OUR NATIVE SONG. OUR native song! our native song! Oh! where is he who loves it not? The spell it holds is deep and strong, Where'er we go, whate'er our lot. Let other music greet our ear With thrilling fire or dulcet tone; We speak to praise, we pause to hear, But yet-oh! yet-'t is not our own! The anthem chant, the ballad wild, The notes that we remember longThe theme we sung with lisping tongue"Tis this we love our native song! The one who bears the felon's brand, With moody brow and darken'd name, Thrust meanly from his father-land, To languish out a life of shame; Oh! let him hear some simple strainSome lay his mother taught her boyHe'll feel the charm, and dream again Of home, of innocence, and joy! The sigh will burst, the drops will start, And all of virtue, buried longThe best, the purest in his heart, Is waken'd by his native song. Self-exiled from our place of birth, To climes more fragrant, bright, and gay The memory of our own fair earth May chance awhile to fade away: But should some minstrel echo fall, Of chords that breathe old England's fame, Our souls will burn, our spirits yearn, True to the land we love and claim. The high the low! in weal or wo, Be sure there's something coldly wrong About the heart that does not glow To hear its own, its native song. B. SIMMONS. MR. SIMMONS has been several years a contributor to Blackwood's Magazine, and in THE DISINTERMENT. LOST Lord of Song! who grandly gave Died at the feet of Freedom-hear! No banner's golden smile, Far from the swarming city's crowd, Save, few and faint, when o'er the foam Unworthy of thy sacred dust, That heaps such outrage on thy bust! Of this last consolation, though but scant. O mighty Master! rise and flee, Swift as some meteor bold and bright, With me thy cloud, attending thee, Across the dusky tracts of night, To where the sunset's latest radiance shone Below that broad unbroken sea Long since the sultry sun has dropp'd, And now in dread solemnity -As though its course Creation stopp'd One wondrous hour, to watch the birth Of deeds portentous unto earthThe moonless midnight far and wide, Solidly black, flings over all 1843 he published a volume of poems entitled Legends and Lyrics. The giant waste of waveless tide Whose folds in thickest gloom unfurl'd, Where leans yon solitary star, At once ring bold and sharply clear, Ye scarce may know from whence they come, Whether from island or from star, Both lie so hush'd and dumb! Your granite heaped his head in vain; And set the loved-one free, Have cried, "Come forth!" and lo! again, That look that, where its anger fell, Up-from the dust, ye sleepers, ho! By the blue Danube's stately waveFrom Berlin's towers-from Moscow's snow, And Windsor's gorgeous grave! Come-summon'd by the omnific power, The spirit of this thrilling hourAnd, stooping from yon craggy height, Girt by each perish'd satellite, Each cunning tool of kingly terror Who served your reigns of fraud and error, Behold, where with relentless lock Ye chain'd Prometheus to his rock, And, when his tortured bosom ceased Your vulture's savage beak to feast, Where fathom-deep ye dug his cell, And built and barr'd his coffin down, Half doubting if even death could quell Such terrible renown; Now mid the torch's solemn glare, And bended knee, and mutter'd prayer, Within that green sepulchral glen Uncover'd groups of warrior men Breathless perform the high behest Of winning back, in priceless trust, For the regenerated West, Your victim's mighty dust. Hark! how they burst your cramps and rings- Stout men! delve on with axe and bar, Bid the tomb's ponderous portals fly! And loud your clanking hammers ply; Ha, ha! ye banded, baffled kings!" Brave men! delve on with axe and bar, Ye're watch'd from yonder glorious star. "Tis morn- -the marble floor is cleft, And slight and short, the labour left; "Tis noon- -they wind the windlass now To heave the granite from his brow: Back to each gazer's waiting heart The life-blood leaps with anxious startDown Bertrand's cheek the tear-drop stealsLow in the dust Las Casas kneels, (Oh! Tried and trusted-still, as long As the true heart's fidelity Shall form the theme of harp and song, High bards shall sing of ye!) And sick from victory's vulgar war, And dash thee from thy car, 'Tis done-his chiefs are lifting now Raise That silken cloud, what meet the gaze? Of him whose threshold-steps were thrones, And from his mind's immortal flame Tranquilly there NAPOLEON lies reveal'd, Fast fades the vision-from that glen Napoleon rests again! And France's galley soon the sail Let Paris, too, prepare a show, Be lavish'd there for him, Or pilgrim musing o'er those pages (Replete with marvels) that impart His story unto ages, The spacious azure of yon sea VIEW ON THE HUDSON. SOUND to the sun thy solemn joy for ever! Roll forth the enormous gladness of thy waves, Mid boundless bloom, thou bright majestic river, Worthy the giant land thy current laves! Each bend of beauty, from the stooping cliff, Whose shade is dotted by the fisher's skiffFrom rocks embattled, that, abrupt and tall, Heave their bulk skyward like a castle-wall, And hem thee in, until the Rapids hoarse Split the huge marble with an earthquake's force, To where thy waves are sweet with summer scents, Flung from the Highland's softer lineamentsEach lovelier change thy broadening billows take, Now sweeping on, now like some mighty lake, Stretching away where evening-tinted isles Woo thee to linger mid their rosy smiles The lonely cove—the village-humming hill- Painting the life thy forest-shadows knew, What time the settlers, crowding o'er the ocean, Spread their white sails along thy waters blue. Theirs were the hearts true liberty bestows The valour that adventure lights in men; . And in their children still the metal glows, As well can witness each resounding glen Of the fair scene, whose mellow colours shine Beneath the splendour of yon evening orb, That sinks serene as WASHINGTON'S decline, Whose memory here should meaner thoughts absorb. Here rose the ramparts, never rear'd in vain Soar'd the Republic's flag, high-floating in the wind! DEATH-CHANT FOR THE SULTAN MAHMOUD. RAISE the song to the mighty, whose glory shall die When the moon of his empire has dropp'd from the sky; And if wail be awaken'd for him who smote down Grim bigotry's Moloch, guilt's bloody renown, Mow'd down beneath cannon and carbine they fell. Raise the song to the mighty! high Mahmoud, whose stroke In a moment the fetters of centuries broke! First launch'd for his nation, Is in sight from Damascus, and Mecca is wanSheik and Imam are trembling with terror and awe, For this Cadmus of Caliphs has laugh'd at the law: Fair painting must sully the Prophet's proud tomb, For Athenè, not loth, Has left Greece to the Goth, And planted her arts-shading olive in Roum. When thy spirit imparts To their recreant hearts Its grandeur, thy horse-tails may flap over men. Sound the trump for the mighty! great Allah thy son With Azrel, the angel unsparing, is gone! While round his shrunk borders the thunder was growling, And the Muscovite wolves thickly herded were howling, And snuffing the gales that, refreshingly cool, In wild redolence burst, Where, bulwark'd in gold, blush the brides of Stainboul. Sound the trump for the mighty! he died ere the tramp Of the terror-horsed Tartar who dash'd from the camp Stay'd his soul with the tale that his dastardly hordes Lay reap'd upon Nekshib, where sickles were swords! And the lords of the spear's haughty kingdom has past To the Rebel and Hun! And the death-song is done: But thy praise shall not perish, lost Mahmoud the Last! |