Part 7 (1/2)
”I see the living tide roll on; It crowns with flaming towers The icy capes of Labrador, The Spaniard's 'land of flowers'!
It streams beyond the splintered ridge That parts the northern showers; From eastern rock to sunset wave The Continent is ours!”
He ceased, the grim old soldier-saint, Then softly bent to cheer The Pilgrim-child, whose wasting face Was meekly turned to hear; And drew his toil-worn sleeve across To brush the manly tear From cheeks that never changed in woe, And never blanched in fear.
The weary Pilgrim slumbers, His resting-place unknown; His hands were crossed, his lips were closed, The dust was o'er him strown; The drifting soil, the mouldering leaf, Along the sod were blown; His mound has melted into earth, His memory lives alone.
So let it live unfading, The memory of the dead, Long as the pale anemone Springs where their tears were shed, Or, raining in the summer's wind In flakes of burning red, The wild rose sprinkles with its leaves The turf where once they bled!
Yea, when the frowning bulwarks That guard this holy strand Have sunk beneath the trampling surge In beds of sparkling sand, While in the waste of ocean One h.o.a.ry rock shall stand, Be this its latest legend,-- HERE WAS THE PILGRIM'S LAND!
THE STEAMBOAT
SEE how yon flaming herald treads The ridged and rolling waves, As, cras.h.i.+ng o'er their crested heads, She bows her surly slaves!
With foam before and fire behind, She rends the clinging sea, That flies before the roaring wind, Beneath her hissing lee.
The morning spray, like sea-born flowers, With heaped and glistening bells, Falls round her fast, in ringing showers, With every wave that swells; And, burning o'er the midnight deep, In lurid fringes thrown, The living gems of ocean sweep Along her flas.h.i.+ng zone.
With clas.h.i.+ng wheel and lifting keel, And smoking torch on high, When winds are loud and billows reel, She thunders foaming by; When seas are silent and serene, With even beam she glides, The suns.h.i.+ne glimmering through the green That skirts her gleaming sides.
Now, like a wild, nymph, far apart She veils her shadowy form, The beating of her restless heart Still sounding through the storm; Now answers, like a courtly dame, The reddening surges o'er, With flying scarf of spangled flame, The Pharos of the sh.o.r.e.
To-night yon pilot shall not sleep, Who trims his narrowed sail; To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep Her broad breast to the gale; And many a foresail, scooped and strained, Shall break from yard and stay, Before this smoky wreath has stained The rising mist of day.
Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud, I see yon quivering mast; The black throat of the hunted cloud Is panting forth the blast!
An hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff, The giant surge shall fling His tresses o'er yon pennon staff, White as the sea-bird's wing.
Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep; Nor wind nor wave shall tire Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap With floods of living fire; Sleep on, and, when the morning light Streams o'er the s.h.i.+ning bay, Oh think of those for whom the night Shall never wake in day.
LEXINGTON
SLOWLY the mist o'er the meadow was creeping, Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun, When from his couch, while his children were sleeping, Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.
Waving her golden veil Over the silent dale, Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire; Hushed was his parting sigh, While from his n.o.ble eye Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire.
On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing Calmly the first-born of glory have met; Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing!
Look! with their life-blood the young gra.s.s is wet Faint is the feeble breath, Murmuring low in death, ”Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;”
Nerveless the iron hand, Raised for its native land, Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side.
Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling, From their far hamlets the yeomanry come; As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling, Circles the beat of the mustering drum.
Fast on the soldier's path Darken the waves of wrath,-- Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall; Red glares the musket's flash, Sharp rings the rifle's crash, Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall.
Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing, Never to shadow his cold brow again; Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing, Reeking and panting he droops on the rein; Pale is the lip of scorn, Voiceless the trumpet horn, Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high; Many a belted breast Low on the turf shall rest Ere the dark hunters the herd have pa.s.sed by.