Go, see what I have seen,
Behold the strong man bow,
With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood,
And cold and livid brow;
Go catch his withering glance, and see
There mirrored his soul's misery.
Go, to thy mother's side,
And her crushed bosom cheer;
Thy own deep anguish hide;
Wipe from her cheek the bitter tear;
Mark her worn frame and withered brow,
The gray that streaks her dark hair now;
With fading frame and trembling limb,
And trace the ruin back to him
Whose plighted faith, in early youth,
Promised eternal love and truth;
But who, forsworn, hath yielded up
That promise to the cursed cup,
And led her down through love and light,
And all that made her promise bright,
And chained her there, 'mid want and strife,
That lowly thing-a drunkard's wife!
And stamped on childhood's brow so mild
That withering blight, the drunkard's child.
Go, hear, and feel, and see, and know
All that my soul hath felt and known, Then look upon the wine-cup's glow,
See if its beauty can atone;
Think if its flavor you will try,
When all proclaim, ""Tis drink, and die."
Tell me I hate the bowl
Hate is a feeble word:
I loathe -- abhor-my very soul
With strong disgust is stirred,
Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell
Of the dark beverage of hell.
"Amidst all the terrible incidents attendant upon the destruction of the Arctic, there is one which impresses us with a feeling of awe and admiration, and shows all the world that the age of heroes is not altogether gone by. We refer to the young man, Stuart Holland, whose post of duty, throughout the trying scene, was the firing of a signal gun, at intervals, in the hope of attracting the attention of vessels in the He was in the very act of firing, as the vessel distance to the scene of the disaster. disappeared below the waters."
EATH on the waters! hark! the cry
Of hundreds in their agony,
Who, helpless, crowd the deck;
There manhood sternly marks his tomb,
And woman wails amid the gloom,
As slowly sinks the wreck.
But who is he that calmly stands,
The lighted brand within his hands,
Beside the minute gun?
What quiet grandeur in his air
His right arm raised—his forehead bare,
Amid the cannon's quivering glare,
And mist-wreaths rolling dun!
"Save, save thyself!" the captain cried —
"The craven crew have left our side:
I go where goes my glorious bride,
My own majestic bark.
But thou art free-thy mother waits
Her son, beside the cottage gates!"
How answered Holland-hark!
His minute-gun again—and by
The flash that lights the sea and sky,
Behold the hero's form,
Grand as a young Greek god who smiles
When shake the proud Olympian piles,
And quiver all the misty isles
Beneath the bolted storm!
In vain, in vain the loud gun roars -—-
No more for him the calm green shores-
For him no more the home:
But still undaunted there he stands,
The lighted brand within his hands,
Above the wild, white foam.
See! see! the vessel reels-a cry
Of shivering horror rends the sky-
O God! can no one save?
The proud ship sinks-and sinks: again
The cannon thunders to the main-
Then nought but mist and wave,
Where, but a few brief hours ago,
The rider of the billows bore,
In pride, four hundred joyous souls
To an expectant shore!
Soul of the brave! when sounds the trump
'Mid red-browed battle's glorious pomp,
And rolling drum and thrilling fife
Lead on the dark and desperate strife,
While gorgeous banners rise and fall
Majestic o'er the soldier's pall,
And eager nations turn their eyes
Upon the heroes' sacrifice-
Oh, 't is not then, it is not there,
With gory blade and vengeful air,
The grandest wreath is thine:
'Tis when with calm, untrembling breath,
The hero, smiling, faces Death
Upon the land or brine,
And knowing not if e'er his name
Shall murmur from the harp of fame,
But looking from a troubled zone
To God, and to his God alone!
Brave Holland! such a wreath is thine,
And millions shall rejoice that they
May build to thee a glorious shrine,
And round it deathless laurel twine,
Nor let thy memory fade away –
For still, despite the reeling deck,
The yawning wave, the sinking wreck,
The record of thy deed remains,
Stamped on the pyramid that Time
For hero-souls of every clime
Has reared on glory's plains.
Oh, dweller of the crag and cloud,
Wave wider, wider yet thy wing!
Roll back, roll back the tempest's shroud,
And brood above the thunder's spring:
A newer splendor lights thy plume,
And fresher vigor nerves thy flight
Amid the South's soft sunny bloom,
Or through the Northland's wintry night:
"T was not in vain our martyrs sighed -
And not in vain our heroes cried
'Tis sweet for one's own land to die!
The soul of yore, the soul that gave
Their glory to our soil and wave,
From Vernon's mount and Ashland's grave,
Still lightens through the sky!
NOW glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!
And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France!
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,
For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.
Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war,
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre.
Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzell's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land!
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand;
And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,
To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.
The King has come to marshal us, all in his armor drest;
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,
Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our lord the
King!"
"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray —
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of
And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre."
Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin!
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the golden lilies now upon them with the lance!
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.
Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein,
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter - the Flemish Count is slain; Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven
And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van
"Remember St. Bartholomew" was passed from man to man; But out spake gentle Henry, then: "No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go."
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