They fought, like brave men, long and well, His few surviving comrades saw Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death! Which close the pestilence are broke, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, The thanks of millions yet to be. Weehawken.-F. G. HALLECK. WEEHAWKEN! in thy mountain scenery yet, And never has a summer's morning smiled Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs O'er crags that proudly tower above the deep, And knows that sense of danger, which sublimes The breathless moment-when his daring step Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear The low dash of the wave with startled ear, Like the death-music of his coming doom, In such an hour, he turns, and on his view, Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before himClouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue Of summer's sky, in beauty bending o'er him Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement, And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent, And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold Its memory of this; nor lives there one, Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood days Of happiness were passed beneath that sun, That in his manhood prime can calmly gaze Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand, Nor feel the prouder of his native land. On laying the Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill Monument.-PIERPONT. O, is not this a holy spot? 'Tis the high place of Freedom's birth! God of our fathers! is it not The holiest spot of all the earth? Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side; But on this hill thou, Lord, hast dwelt, Here sleeps their dust: 'tis holy ground: Free as the winds around us blow, But on their deeds no shade shall fall, While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame : And thy right hand shall guard their fame. Rousseau and Cowper.-CARLOS WILCOX. ROUSSEAU could weep; yes, with a heart of stone, The pure and peaceful lake, and muse alone On its small running waves, in purple dyed, On the white sails that o'er its bosom glide, But his were not the tears of feeling fine Of wasting fire, chills with the icy snow Was he but justly wretched from his crimes? Lifts the pure heart through clouds, that roll between Or wherefore did those clouds thus intervene To render vain faith's lifted telescope, And leave him in thick gloom his weary way to grope? He, too, could give himself to musing deep; In echoes quick returned more mellow and more clear. And he could cherish wild and mournful dreams, Shot under lofty tops her level beams, Stretching the shades of trunks erect and bare, As of some temple vast or colonnade, While on green turf, made smooth without his care, He wandered o'er its stripes of light and shade, And heard the dying day-breeze all the boughs pervade. was thus, in nature's bloom and solitude, e nursed his grief till nothing could assuage; 'was thus his tender spirit was subdued, ill in life's toils it could no more engage; nd his had been a useless pilgrimage, Iad he been gifted with no sacred power, To send his thoughts to every future age; But he is gone where grief will not devour, nere beauty will not fade, and skies will never lower. To that bright world where things of earth appear To the Dead.-BRAINARD. How many now are dead to me How many are alive to me Who crumble in their graves, nor see Beyond the blue seas, far away, One died in prison, far away, Where stone on stone shut out the day, And never hope or comfort's ray In his lone dungeon shone. Dead to the world, alive to me; Though months and years have passed, In a lone hour, his sigh to me Comes like the hum of some wild bee, As when I saw him last. |