Wide o'er the valley the pennons are fluttering,War's sullen story the deep guns are muttering,Forward! blue-jackets, in good steady order,Strike for the fame of your good northern border;Forever shall history tell of the bloody checkWaiting the foe at the siege of Chapultepec.Let the proud deeds of your fathers inspire ye still,Think ye of Monmouth, and Princeton, and Bunker Hill,Come from your hallowed graves, famous in story,Shades of our heroes, and lead us to glory.Side by side, son and father with hoary headStruggle for triumph, or death on a gory bed.Hark! to the charge! the war-hail is pattering,The foe through our ranks red rain is scattering;Huzza! forward! no halting or flagging tillProudly the red stripes float o'er yon rocky hill.Northern and Southerner, let your feuds smolder;Charge! for our banner's fame, shoulder to shoulder!Flash the fort guns, and thunders their stunning swellFar o'er the valley to white Popocatapetl,Death revels high in the midst of the bloody sport,Bursting in flame from each black-throated castle-port,Press on the line with keen sabres dripping wet,Cheer, as ye smite with the death-dealing bayonet!Our bold Northern eagle, king of the firmament,Shares with no rival the skies of the continent.Yields the fierce foeman; down let his flag be hurled,Shout, as our own from the turret is wide unfurled!Shout! for long shall Mexico mourn the wreckOf her proud state at the siege of Chapultepec.William Haines Lytle.
Wide o'er the valley the pennons are fluttering,War's sullen story the deep guns are muttering,Forward! blue-jackets, in good steady order,Strike for the fame of your good northern border;Forever shall history tell of the bloody checkWaiting the foe at the siege of Chapultepec.Let the proud deeds of your fathers inspire ye still,Think ye of Monmouth, and Princeton, and Bunker Hill,Come from your hallowed graves, famous in story,Shades of our heroes, and lead us to glory.Side by side, son and father with hoary headStruggle for triumph, or death on a gory bed.Hark! to the charge! the war-hail is pattering,The foe through our ranks red rain is scattering;Huzza! forward! no halting or flagging tillProudly the red stripes float o'er yon rocky hill.Northern and Southerner, let your feuds smolder;Charge! for our banner's fame, shoulder to shoulder!Flash the fort guns, and thunders their stunning swellFar o'er the valley to white Popocatapetl,Death revels high in the midst of the bloody sport,Bursting in flame from each black-throated castle-port,Press on the line with keen sabres dripping wet,Cheer, as ye smite with the death-dealing bayonet!Our bold Northern eagle, king of the firmament,Shares with no rival the skies of the continent.Yields the fierce foeman; down let his flag be hurled,Shout, as our own from the turret is wide unfurled!Shout! for long shall Mexico mourn the wreckOf her proud state at the siege of Chapultepec.William Haines Lytle.
Wide o'er the valley the pennons are fluttering,War's sullen story the deep guns are muttering,Forward! blue-jackets, in good steady order,Strike for the fame of your good northern border;Forever shall history tell of the bloody checkWaiting the foe at the siege of Chapultepec.
Let the proud deeds of your fathers inspire ye still,Think ye of Monmouth, and Princeton, and Bunker Hill,Come from your hallowed graves, famous in story,Shades of our heroes, and lead us to glory.Side by side, son and father with hoary headStruggle for triumph, or death on a gory bed.
Hark! to the charge! the war-hail is pattering,The foe through our ranks red rain is scattering;Huzza! forward! no halting or flagging tillProudly the red stripes float o'er yon rocky hill.Northern and Southerner, let your feuds smolder;Charge! for our banner's fame, shoulder to shoulder!
Flash the fort guns, and thunders their stunning swellFar o'er the valley to white Popocatapetl,Death revels high in the midst of the bloody sport,Bursting in flame from each black-throated castle-port,Press on the line with keen sabres dripping wet,Cheer, as ye smite with the death-dealing bayonet!
Our bold Northern eagle, king of the firmament,Shares with no rival the skies of the continent.Yields the fierce foeman; down let his flag be hurled,Shout, as our own from the turret is wide unfurled!Shout! for long shall Mexico mourn the wreckOf her proud state at the siege of Chapultepec.
William Haines Lytle.
While these victories were being won in Mexico, General Stephen W. Kearny, at the head of the Army of the West, had seized the territory of New Mexico, and established a civil government at Santa Fé. He then proceeded to California, defeated the Mexicans at Sacramento, and took possession of that province.
While these victories were being won in Mexico, General Stephen W. Kearny, at the head of the Army of the West, had seized the territory of New Mexico, and established a civil government at Santa Fé. He then proceeded to California, defeated the Mexicans at Sacramento, and took possession of that province.
ILLUMINATION FOR VICTORIES IN MEXICO
Light up thy homes, Columbia,For those chivalric menWho bear to scenes of warlike strifeThy conquering arms again,Where glorious victories, flash on flash,Reveal their stormy way,—Resaca's, Palo Alto's fields,The heights of Monterey!They pile with thousands of thy foesBuena Vista's plain;With maids and wives, at Vera Cruz,Swell high the list of slain!They paint upon the Southern skiesThe blaze of burning domes,—Their laurels dew with blood of babes!Light up, light up thy homes!Light up your homes, O fathers!For those young hero bands,Whose march is still through vanquished towns,And over conquered lands!Whose valor, wild, impetuous,In all its fiery glow,Pours onward like a lava-tide,And sweeps away the foe!For those whose dead brows glory crowns,On crimson couches sleeping,And for home faces wan with grief,And fond eyes dim with weeping.And for the soldier, poor, unknown,Who battled, madly brave,Beneath a stranger soil to shareA shallow, crowded grave.Light up thy home, young mother!Then gaze in pride and joyUpon those fair and gentle girls,That eagle-eyed young boy;And clasp thy darling little oneYet closer to thy breast,And be thy kisses on its lipsIn yearning love impressed.In yon beleaguered cityWere homes as sweet as thine;Where trembling mothers felt loved armsIn fear around them twine,—The lad with brow of olive hue,The babe like lily fair,The maiden with her midnight eyes,And wealth of raven hair.The booming shot, the murderous shell,Crashed through the crumbling walls,And filled with agony and deathThose sacred household halls!Then, bleeding, crushed, and blackened, layThe sister by the brother,And the torn infant gasped and writhedOn the bosom of the mother!O sisters, if ye have no tearsFor fearful tales like these,If the banners of the victors veilThe victim's agonies,If ye lose the babe's and mother's cryIn the noisy roll of drums,If your hearts with martial pride throb high,Light up, light up your homes!Grace Greenwood.
Light up thy homes, Columbia,For those chivalric menWho bear to scenes of warlike strifeThy conquering arms again,Where glorious victories, flash on flash,Reveal their stormy way,—Resaca's, Palo Alto's fields,The heights of Monterey!They pile with thousands of thy foesBuena Vista's plain;With maids and wives, at Vera Cruz,Swell high the list of slain!They paint upon the Southern skiesThe blaze of burning domes,—Their laurels dew with blood of babes!Light up, light up thy homes!Light up your homes, O fathers!For those young hero bands,Whose march is still through vanquished towns,And over conquered lands!Whose valor, wild, impetuous,In all its fiery glow,Pours onward like a lava-tide,And sweeps away the foe!For those whose dead brows glory crowns,On crimson couches sleeping,And for home faces wan with grief,And fond eyes dim with weeping.And for the soldier, poor, unknown,Who battled, madly brave,Beneath a stranger soil to shareA shallow, crowded grave.Light up thy home, young mother!Then gaze in pride and joyUpon those fair and gentle girls,That eagle-eyed young boy;And clasp thy darling little oneYet closer to thy breast,And be thy kisses on its lipsIn yearning love impressed.In yon beleaguered cityWere homes as sweet as thine;Where trembling mothers felt loved armsIn fear around them twine,—The lad with brow of olive hue,The babe like lily fair,The maiden with her midnight eyes,And wealth of raven hair.The booming shot, the murderous shell,Crashed through the crumbling walls,And filled with agony and deathThose sacred household halls!Then, bleeding, crushed, and blackened, layThe sister by the brother,And the torn infant gasped and writhedOn the bosom of the mother!O sisters, if ye have no tearsFor fearful tales like these,If the banners of the victors veilThe victim's agonies,If ye lose the babe's and mother's cryIn the noisy roll of drums,If your hearts with martial pride throb high,Light up, light up your homes!Grace Greenwood.
Light up thy homes, Columbia,For those chivalric menWho bear to scenes of warlike strifeThy conquering arms again,Where glorious victories, flash on flash,Reveal their stormy way,—Resaca's, Palo Alto's fields,The heights of Monterey!
They pile with thousands of thy foesBuena Vista's plain;With maids and wives, at Vera Cruz,Swell high the list of slain!They paint upon the Southern skiesThe blaze of burning domes,—Their laurels dew with blood of babes!Light up, light up thy homes!
Light up your homes, O fathers!For those young hero bands,Whose march is still through vanquished towns,And over conquered lands!Whose valor, wild, impetuous,In all its fiery glow,Pours onward like a lava-tide,And sweeps away the foe!
For those whose dead brows glory crowns,On crimson couches sleeping,And for home faces wan with grief,And fond eyes dim with weeping.And for the soldier, poor, unknown,Who battled, madly brave,Beneath a stranger soil to shareA shallow, crowded grave.
Light up thy home, young mother!Then gaze in pride and joyUpon those fair and gentle girls,That eagle-eyed young boy;And clasp thy darling little oneYet closer to thy breast,And be thy kisses on its lipsIn yearning love impressed.
In yon beleaguered cityWere homes as sweet as thine;Where trembling mothers felt loved armsIn fear around them twine,—The lad with brow of olive hue,The babe like lily fair,The maiden with her midnight eyes,And wealth of raven hair.
The booming shot, the murderous shell,Crashed through the crumbling walls,And filled with agony and deathThose sacred household halls!Then, bleeding, crushed, and blackened, layThe sister by the brother,And the torn infant gasped and writhedOn the bosom of the mother!
O sisters, if ye have no tearsFor fearful tales like these,If the banners of the victors veilThe victim's agonies,If ye lose the babe's and mother's cryIn the noisy roll of drums,If your hearts with martial pride throb high,Light up, light up your homes!
Grace Greenwood.
The Mexican people knew themselves defeated, and were eager for peace. The treaty was finally signed February 2, 1848. Mexico accepted the Rio Grande as her northern boundary, and ceded New Mexico and California to the United States. For this territory the United States was to pay her $15,000,000, and to assume debts to the amount of $3,500,000.
The Mexican people knew themselves defeated, and were eager for peace. The treaty was finally signed February 2, 1848. Mexico accepted the Rio Grande as her northern boundary, and ceded New Mexico and California to the United States. For this territory the United States was to pay her $15,000,000, and to assume debts to the amount of $3,500,000.
THE CRISIS
Across the Stony Mountains, o'er the desert's drouth and sand,The circles of our empire touch the western ocean's strand;From slumberous Timpanogos to Gila, wild and free,Flowing down from Nuevo-Leon to California's sea;And from the mountains of the east, to Santa Rosa's shore,The eagles of Mexitli shall beat the air no more.O Vale of Rio Bravo! Let thy simple children weep;Close watch about their holy fire let maids of Pecos keep;Let Taos send her cry across Sierra Madre's pines,And Santa Barbara toll her bells amidst her corn and vines;For lo! the pale land-seekers come, with eager eyes of gain,Wide scattering, like the bison herds on broad Salada's plain.Let Sacramento's herdsmen heed what sound the winds bring downOf footsteps on the crisping snow, from cold Nevada's crown!Full hot and fast the Saxon rides, with rein of travel slack,And, bending o'er his saddle, leaves the sunrise at his back;By many a lonely river, and gorge of fir and pine,On many a wintry hill-top, his nightly camp-fires shine.O countrymen and brothers! that land of lake and plain,Of salt wastes alternating with valleys fat with grain;Of mountains white with winter, looking downward, cold, serene,On their feet with spring-vines tangled and lapped in softest green;Swift through whose black volcanic gates, o'er many a sunny vale,Wind-like the Arapahoe sweeps the bison's dusty trail!Great spaces yet untravelled, great lakes whose mystic shoresThe Saxon rifle never heard, nor dip of Saxon oars;Great herds that wander all unwatched, wild steeds that none have tamed,Strange fish in unknown streams, and birds the Saxon never named;Deep mines, dark mountain crucibles, where Nature's chemic powersWork out the Great Designer's will; all these ye say are ours!Forever ours! for good or ill, on us the burden lies:God's balance, watched by angels, is hung across the skies.Shall Justice, Truth, and Freedom turn the poised and trembling scale?Or shall the Evil triumph, and robber Wrong prevail?Shall the broad land o'er which our flag in starry splendor waves,Forego through us its freedom, and bear the tread of slaves?The day is breaking in the East of which the prophets told,And brightens up the sky of Time the Christian Age of Gold;Old Might to Right is yielding, battle blade to clerkly pen,Earth's monarchs are her peoples, and her serfs stand up as men;The isles rejoice together, in a day are nations born,And the slave walks free in Tunis, and by Stamboul's Golden Horn!Is this, O countrymen of mine! a day for us to sowThe soil of new-gained empire with slavery's seeds of woe?To feed with our fresh life-blood the Old World's cast-off crime,Dropped, like some monstrous early birth, from the tired lap of Time?To run anew the evil race the old lost nations ran,And die like them of unbelief of God, and wrong of man?Great Heaven! Is this our mission? End in this the prayers and tears,The toil, the strife, the watchings of our younger, better years?Still as the Old World rolls in light, shall ours in shadow turn,A beamless Chaos, cursed of God, through outer darkness borne?Where the far nations looked for light, a blackness in the air?Where for words of hope they listened, the long wail of despair?The Crisis presses on us; face to face with us it stands,With solemn lips of question, like the Sphinx in Egypt's sands!This day we fashion Destiny, our web of Fate we spin;This day for all hereafter choose we holiness or sin;Even now from starry Gerizim, or Ebal's cloudy crown,We call the dews of blessing or the bolts of cursing down!By all for which the martyrs bore their agony and shame;By all the warning words of truth with which the prophets came;By the Future which awaits us; by all the hopes which castTheir faint and trembling beams across the blackness of the Past;And by the blessed thought of Him who for Earth's freedom died,O my people! O my brothers! let us choose the righteous side.So shall the Northern pioneer go joyful on his way;To wed Penobscot's waters to San Francisco's bay,To make the rugged places smooth, and sow the vales with grain;And bear, with Liberty and Law, the Bible in his train:The mighty West shall bless the East, and sea shall answer sea,And mountain unto mountain call, Praise God, for we are free!John Greenleaf Whittier.
Across the Stony Mountains, o'er the desert's drouth and sand,The circles of our empire touch the western ocean's strand;From slumberous Timpanogos to Gila, wild and free,Flowing down from Nuevo-Leon to California's sea;And from the mountains of the east, to Santa Rosa's shore,The eagles of Mexitli shall beat the air no more.O Vale of Rio Bravo! Let thy simple children weep;Close watch about their holy fire let maids of Pecos keep;Let Taos send her cry across Sierra Madre's pines,And Santa Barbara toll her bells amidst her corn and vines;For lo! the pale land-seekers come, with eager eyes of gain,Wide scattering, like the bison herds on broad Salada's plain.Let Sacramento's herdsmen heed what sound the winds bring downOf footsteps on the crisping snow, from cold Nevada's crown!Full hot and fast the Saxon rides, with rein of travel slack,And, bending o'er his saddle, leaves the sunrise at his back;By many a lonely river, and gorge of fir and pine,On many a wintry hill-top, his nightly camp-fires shine.O countrymen and brothers! that land of lake and plain,Of salt wastes alternating with valleys fat with grain;Of mountains white with winter, looking downward, cold, serene,On their feet with spring-vines tangled and lapped in softest green;Swift through whose black volcanic gates, o'er many a sunny vale,Wind-like the Arapahoe sweeps the bison's dusty trail!Great spaces yet untravelled, great lakes whose mystic shoresThe Saxon rifle never heard, nor dip of Saxon oars;Great herds that wander all unwatched, wild steeds that none have tamed,Strange fish in unknown streams, and birds the Saxon never named;Deep mines, dark mountain crucibles, where Nature's chemic powersWork out the Great Designer's will; all these ye say are ours!Forever ours! for good or ill, on us the burden lies:God's balance, watched by angels, is hung across the skies.Shall Justice, Truth, and Freedom turn the poised and trembling scale?Or shall the Evil triumph, and robber Wrong prevail?Shall the broad land o'er which our flag in starry splendor waves,Forego through us its freedom, and bear the tread of slaves?The day is breaking in the East of which the prophets told,And brightens up the sky of Time the Christian Age of Gold;Old Might to Right is yielding, battle blade to clerkly pen,Earth's monarchs are her peoples, and her serfs stand up as men;The isles rejoice together, in a day are nations born,And the slave walks free in Tunis, and by Stamboul's Golden Horn!Is this, O countrymen of mine! a day for us to sowThe soil of new-gained empire with slavery's seeds of woe?To feed with our fresh life-blood the Old World's cast-off crime,Dropped, like some monstrous early birth, from the tired lap of Time?To run anew the evil race the old lost nations ran,And die like them of unbelief of God, and wrong of man?Great Heaven! Is this our mission? End in this the prayers and tears,The toil, the strife, the watchings of our younger, better years?Still as the Old World rolls in light, shall ours in shadow turn,A beamless Chaos, cursed of God, through outer darkness borne?Where the far nations looked for light, a blackness in the air?Where for words of hope they listened, the long wail of despair?The Crisis presses on us; face to face with us it stands,With solemn lips of question, like the Sphinx in Egypt's sands!This day we fashion Destiny, our web of Fate we spin;This day for all hereafter choose we holiness or sin;Even now from starry Gerizim, or Ebal's cloudy crown,We call the dews of blessing or the bolts of cursing down!By all for which the martyrs bore their agony and shame;By all the warning words of truth with which the prophets came;By the Future which awaits us; by all the hopes which castTheir faint and trembling beams across the blackness of the Past;And by the blessed thought of Him who for Earth's freedom died,O my people! O my brothers! let us choose the righteous side.So shall the Northern pioneer go joyful on his way;To wed Penobscot's waters to San Francisco's bay,To make the rugged places smooth, and sow the vales with grain;And bear, with Liberty and Law, the Bible in his train:The mighty West shall bless the East, and sea shall answer sea,And mountain unto mountain call, Praise God, for we are free!John Greenleaf Whittier.
Across the Stony Mountains, o'er the desert's drouth and sand,The circles of our empire touch the western ocean's strand;From slumberous Timpanogos to Gila, wild and free,Flowing down from Nuevo-Leon to California's sea;And from the mountains of the east, to Santa Rosa's shore,The eagles of Mexitli shall beat the air no more.
O Vale of Rio Bravo! Let thy simple children weep;Close watch about their holy fire let maids of Pecos keep;Let Taos send her cry across Sierra Madre's pines,And Santa Barbara toll her bells amidst her corn and vines;For lo! the pale land-seekers come, with eager eyes of gain,Wide scattering, like the bison herds on broad Salada's plain.
Let Sacramento's herdsmen heed what sound the winds bring downOf footsteps on the crisping snow, from cold Nevada's crown!Full hot and fast the Saxon rides, with rein of travel slack,And, bending o'er his saddle, leaves the sunrise at his back;By many a lonely river, and gorge of fir and pine,On many a wintry hill-top, his nightly camp-fires shine.
O countrymen and brothers! that land of lake and plain,Of salt wastes alternating with valleys fat with grain;Of mountains white with winter, looking downward, cold, serene,On their feet with spring-vines tangled and lapped in softest green;Swift through whose black volcanic gates, o'er many a sunny vale,Wind-like the Arapahoe sweeps the bison's dusty trail!
Great spaces yet untravelled, great lakes whose mystic shoresThe Saxon rifle never heard, nor dip of Saxon oars;Great herds that wander all unwatched, wild steeds that none have tamed,Strange fish in unknown streams, and birds the Saxon never named;Deep mines, dark mountain crucibles, where Nature's chemic powersWork out the Great Designer's will; all these ye say are ours!
Forever ours! for good or ill, on us the burden lies:God's balance, watched by angels, is hung across the skies.Shall Justice, Truth, and Freedom turn the poised and trembling scale?Or shall the Evil triumph, and robber Wrong prevail?Shall the broad land o'er which our flag in starry splendor waves,Forego through us its freedom, and bear the tread of slaves?
The day is breaking in the East of which the prophets told,And brightens up the sky of Time the Christian Age of Gold;Old Might to Right is yielding, battle blade to clerkly pen,Earth's monarchs are her peoples, and her serfs stand up as men;The isles rejoice together, in a day are nations born,And the slave walks free in Tunis, and by Stamboul's Golden Horn!
Is this, O countrymen of mine! a day for us to sowThe soil of new-gained empire with slavery's seeds of woe?To feed with our fresh life-blood the Old World's cast-off crime,Dropped, like some monstrous early birth, from the tired lap of Time?To run anew the evil race the old lost nations ran,And die like them of unbelief of God, and wrong of man?
Great Heaven! Is this our mission? End in this the prayers and tears,The toil, the strife, the watchings of our younger, better years?Still as the Old World rolls in light, shall ours in shadow turn,A beamless Chaos, cursed of God, through outer darkness borne?Where the far nations looked for light, a blackness in the air?Where for words of hope they listened, the long wail of despair?
The Crisis presses on us; face to face with us it stands,With solemn lips of question, like the Sphinx in Egypt's sands!This day we fashion Destiny, our web of Fate we spin;This day for all hereafter choose we holiness or sin;Even now from starry Gerizim, or Ebal's cloudy crown,We call the dews of blessing or the bolts of cursing down!
By all for which the martyrs bore their agony and shame;By all the warning words of truth with which the prophets came;By the Future which awaits us; by all the hopes which castTheir faint and trembling beams across the blackness of the Past;And by the blessed thought of Him who for Earth's freedom died,O my people! O my brothers! let us choose the righteous side.
So shall the Northern pioneer go joyful on his way;To wed Penobscot's waters to San Francisco's bay,To make the rugged places smooth, and sow the vales with grain;And bear, with Liberty and Law, the Bible in his train:The mighty West shall bless the East, and sea shall answer sea,And mountain unto mountain call, Praise God, for we are free!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
On June 12, 1848, the last of the United States troops left the City of Mexico. They were received at home with the wildest enthusiasm. Never had a nation, in modern times, fought so successful a war in so short a time.
On June 12, 1848, the last of the United States troops left the City of Mexico. They were received at home with the wildest enthusiasm. Never had a nation, in modern times, fought so successful a war in so short a time.
THE VOLUNTEERS
[1849]
The Volunteers! the Volunteers!I dream, as in the by-gone years,I hear again their stirring cheers,And see their banners shine,What time the yet unconquered NorthPours to the wars her legions forth,For many a wrong to strike a blowWith mailèd hand at Mexico.The Volunteers! Ah, where are theyWho bade the hostile surges stay,When the black forts of MontereyFrowned on their dauntless line?When, undismayed amid the shockOf war, like Cerro Gordo's rock,They stood, or rushed more madly onThan tropic tempest o'er San Juan?On Angostura's crowded fieldTheir shattered columns scorned to yield,And wildly yet defiance pealedTheir flashing batteries' throats;And echoed then the rifle's crack,As deadly as when on the trackOf flying foe, of yore, its voiceBade Orleans' dark-eyed girls rejoice.Blent with the roar of guns and bombs,How grandly from the dim past comesThe roll of their victorious drums,Their bugle's joyous notes,When over Mexico's proud towers,And the fair valley's storied bowers,Fit recompense of toil and scars,In triumph waved their flag of stars.Ah, comrades, of your own tried troop,Whose honor ne'er to shame might stoop,Of lion heart and eagle swoop,But you alone remain;On all the rest has fallen the hushOf death; the men whose battle-rushWas wild as sun-loosed torrent's flowFrom Orizaba's crest of snow.The Volunteers! the Volunteers!God send us peace through all our years,But if the cloud of war appears,We'll see them once again.From broad Ohio's peaceful side,From where the Maumee pours its tide,From storm-lashed Erie's wintry shore,Shall spring the Volunteers once more.William Haines Lytle.
The Volunteers! the Volunteers!I dream, as in the by-gone years,I hear again their stirring cheers,And see their banners shine,What time the yet unconquered NorthPours to the wars her legions forth,For many a wrong to strike a blowWith mailèd hand at Mexico.The Volunteers! Ah, where are theyWho bade the hostile surges stay,When the black forts of MontereyFrowned on their dauntless line?When, undismayed amid the shockOf war, like Cerro Gordo's rock,They stood, or rushed more madly onThan tropic tempest o'er San Juan?On Angostura's crowded fieldTheir shattered columns scorned to yield,And wildly yet defiance pealedTheir flashing batteries' throats;And echoed then the rifle's crack,As deadly as when on the trackOf flying foe, of yore, its voiceBade Orleans' dark-eyed girls rejoice.Blent with the roar of guns and bombs,How grandly from the dim past comesThe roll of their victorious drums,Their bugle's joyous notes,When over Mexico's proud towers,And the fair valley's storied bowers,Fit recompense of toil and scars,In triumph waved their flag of stars.Ah, comrades, of your own tried troop,Whose honor ne'er to shame might stoop,Of lion heart and eagle swoop,But you alone remain;On all the rest has fallen the hushOf death; the men whose battle-rushWas wild as sun-loosed torrent's flowFrom Orizaba's crest of snow.The Volunteers! the Volunteers!God send us peace through all our years,But if the cloud of war appears,We'll see them once again.From broad Ohio's peaceful side,From where the Maumee pours its tide,From storm-lashed Erie's wintry shore,Shall spring the Volunteers once more.William Haines Lytle.
The Volunteers! the Volunteers!I dream, as in the by-gone years,I hear again their stirring cheers,And see their banners shine,What time the yet unconquered NorthPours to the wars her legions forth,For many a wrong to strike a blowWith mailèd hand at Mexico.
The Volunteers! Ah, where are theyWho bade the hostile surges stay,When the black forts of MontereyFrowned on their dauntless line?When, undismayed amid the shockOf war, like Cerro Gordo's rock,They stood, or rushed more madly onThan tropic tempest o'er San Juan?
On Angostura's crowded fieldTheir shattered columns scorned to yield,And wildly yet defiance pealedTheir flashing batteries' throats;And echoed then the rifle's crack,As deadly as when on the trackOf flying foe, of yore, its voiceBade Orleans' dark-eyed girls rejoice.
Blent with the roar of guns and bombs,How grandly from the dim past comesThe roll of their victorious drums,Their bugle's joyous notes,When over Mexico's proud towers,And the fair valley's storied bowers,Fit recompense of toil and scars,In triumph waved their flag of stars.
Ah, comrades, of your own tried troop,Whose honor ne'er to shame might stoop,Of lion heart and eagle swoop,But you alone remain;On all the rest has fallen the hushOf death; the men whose battle-rushWas wild as sun-loosed torrent's flowFrom Orizaba's crest of snow.
The Volunteers! the Volunteers!God send us peace through all our years,But if the cloud of war appears,We'll see them once again.From broad Ohio's peaceful side,From where the Maumee pours its tide,From storm-lashed Erie's wintry shore,Shall spring the Volunteers once more.
William Haines Lytle.
FOURTEEN YEARS OF PEACE
In his message to Congress at the opening of the December session of 1847, President Polk recommended, among other things, the construction of a ship canal across the Isthmus of Panama—a recommendation which was not to bear fruit for sixty years.
In his message to Congress at the opening of the December session of 1847, President Polk recommended, among other things, the construction of a ship canal across the Isthmus of Panama—a recommendation which was not to bear fruit for sixty years.
THE SHIP CANAL FROM THE ATLANTIC TO THE PACIFIC
AN ODE TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE AND THEIR CONGRESS,ON READING THE MESSAGE OF THE UNITED STATES PRESIDENT IN DECEMBER, 1847
Rend America asunderAnd unite the Binding SeaThat emboldens man and tempers—Make the ocean free.Break the bolt that bars the passage,That our River richly poursWestern wealth to western nations;Let that sea be ours—Ours by all the hardy whalers,By the pointing Oregon,By the west-impelled and working,Unthralled Saxon son.Long indeed they have been wooing,The Pacific and his bride;Now 'tis time for holy wedding—Join them by the tide.Have the snowy surfs not struggledMany centuries in vainThat their lips might seal the Union?Lock them main to main.When the mighty God of natureMade this favored continent,He allowed it yet unsevered,That a race be sent,Able, mindful of his purpose,Prone to people, to subdue,And to bind the land with iron,Or to force it through.What the prophet-navigator,Seeking straits to his Catais,But began, now consummate it—Make the strait and pass.Blessed the eyes that shall behold it,When the pointing boom shall veer,Leading through the parted Andes,While the nations cheer!There at Suez, Europe's mattockCuts the briny road with skill,And must Darien bid defianceTo the pilot still?Do we breathe this breath of KnowledgePurely to enjoy its zest?Shall the iron arm of scienceLike a sluggard rest?Up then, at it! earnest people!Bravely wrought thy scorning blade,But there's fresher fame in store yet,Glory for the spade.What we want is naught in envy,And for all we pioneer;Let the keels of every nationThrough the isthmus steer.Must the globe be always girdedEre we get to Bramah's priest?Take the tissues of your LowellsWestward to the East.Ye, that vanquish pain and distance,Ye, enmeshing Time with wire,Court ye patiently foreverYon Antarctic ire?Shall the mariner foreverDouble the impending capes,While his longsome and retracingNeedless course he shapes?What was daring for our fathers,To defy those billows fierce,Is but tame for their descendants;We are bid to pierce.Ye that fight with printing armies,Settle sons on forlorn track,As the Romans flung their eagles,But to win them back.Who, undoubting, worship boldness,And, if baffled, bolder rise,Shall we lag when grandeur beckonsTo this good emprize?Let the vastness not appal us;Greatness is thy destiny.Let the doubters not recall us:Venture suits the free.Like a seer, I see her throning,Winlandstrong in freedom's health,Warding peace on both the waters,Widest Commonwealth.Crowned with wreaths that still grow greener,Guerdon for untiring pain,For the wise, the stout, and steadfast:Rend the land in twain.Cleave America asunder,This is worthy work for thee.Hark! The seas roll up imploring"Make the ocean free."Francis Lieber.
Rend America asunderAnd unite the Binding SeaThat emboldens man and tempers—Make the ocean free.Break the bolt that bars the passage,That our River richly poursWestern wealth to western nations;Let that sea be ours—Ours by all the hardy whalers,By the pointing Oregon,By the west-impelled and working,Unthralled Saxon son.Long indeed they have been wooing,The Pacific and his bride;Now 'tis time for holy wedding—Join them by the tide.Have the snowy surfs not struggledMany centuries in vainThat their lips might seal the Union?Lock them main to main.When the mighty God of natureMade this favored continent,He allowed it yet unsevered,That a race be sent,Able, mindful of his purpose,Prone to people, to subdue,And to bind the land with iron,Or to force it through.What the prophet-navigator,Seeking straits to his Catais,But began, now consummate it—Make the strait and pass.Blessed the eyes that shall behold it,When the pointing boom shall veer,Leading through the parted Andes,While the nations cheer!There at Suez, Europe's mattockCuts the briny road with skill,And must Darien bid defianceTo the pilot still?Do we breathe this breath of KnowledgePurely to enjoy its zest?Shall the iron arm of scienceLike a sluggard rest?Up then, at it! earnest people!Bravely wrought thy scorning blade,But there's fresher fame in store yet,Glory for the spade.What we want is naught in envy,And for all we pioneer;Let the keels of every nationThrough the isthmus steer.Must the globe be always girdedEre we get to Bramah's priest?Take the tissues of your LowellsWestward to the East.Ye, that vanquish pain and distance,Ye, enmeshing Time with wire,Court ye patiently foreverYon Antarctic ire?Shall the mariner foreverDouble the impending capes,While his longsome and retracingNeedless course he shapes?What was daring for our fathers,To defy those billows fierce,Is but tame for their descendants;We are bid to pierce.Ye that fight with printing armies,Settle sons on forlorn track,As the Romans flung their eagles,But to win them back.Who, undoubting, worship boldness,And, if baffled, bolder rise,Shall we lag when grandeur beckonsTo this good emprize?Let the vastness not appal us;Greatness is thy destiny.Let the doubters not recall us:Venture suits the free.Like a seer, I see her throning,Winlandstrong in freedom's health,Warding peace on both the waters,Widest Commonwealth.Crowned with wreaths that still grow greener,Guerdon for untiring pain,For the wise, the stout, and steadfast:Rend the land in twain.Cleave America asunder,This is worthy work for thee.Hark! The seas roll up imploring"Make the ocean free."Francis Lieber.
Rend America asunderAnd unite the Binding SeaThat emboldens man and tempers—Make the ocean free.
Break the bolt that bars the passage,That our River richly poursWestern wealth to western nations;Let that sea be ours—
Ours by all the hardy whalers,By the pointing Oregon,By the west-impelled and working,Unthralled Saxon son.
Long indeed they have been wooing,The Pacific and his bride;Now 'tis time for holy wedding—Join them by the tide.
Have the snowy surfs not struggledMany centuries in vainThat their lips might seal the Union?Lock them main to main.
When the mighty God of natureMade this favored continent,He allowed it yet unsevered,That a race be sent,
Able, mindful of his purpose,Prone to people, to subdue,And to bind the land with iron,Or to force it through.
What the prophet-navigator,Seeking straits to his Catais,But began, now consummate it—Make the strait and pass.
Blessed the eyes that shall behold it,When the pointing boom shall veer,Leading through the parted Andes,While the nations cheer!
There at Suez, Europe's mattockCuts the briny road with skill,And must Darien bid defianceTo the pilot still?
Do we breathe this breath of KnowledgePurely to enjoy its zest?Shall the iron arm of scienceLike a sluggard rest?
Up then, at it! earnest people!Bravely wrought thy scorning blade,But there's fresher fame in store yet,Glory for the spade.
What we want is naught in envy,And for all we pioneer;Let the keels of every nationThrough the isthmus steer.
Must the globe be always girdedEre we get to Bramah's priest?Take the tissues of your LowellsWestward to the East.
Ye, that vanquish pain and distance,Ye, enmeshing Time with wire,Court ye patiently foreverYon Antarctic ire?
Shall the mariner foreverDouble the impending capes,While his longsome and retracingNeedless course he shapes?
What was daring for our fathers,To defy those billows fierce,Is but tame for their descendants;We are bid to pierce.
Ye that fight with printing armies,Settle sons on forlorn track,As the Romans flung their eagles,But to win them back.
Who, undoubting, worship boldness,And, if baffled, bolder rise,Shall we lag when grandeur beckonsTo this good emprize?
Let the vastness not appal us;Greatness is thy destiny.Let the doubters not recall us:Venture suits the free.
Like a seer, I see her throning,Winlandstrong in freedom's health,Warding peace on both the waters,Widest Commonwealth.
Crowned with wreaths that still grow greener,Guerdon for untiring pain,For the wise, the stout, and steadfast:Rend the land in twain.
Cleave America asunder,This is worthy work for thee.Hark! The seas roll up imploring"Make the ocean free."
Francis Lieber.
The famine in Ireland in 1847 awakened much sympathy in the United States, and the ship Jamestown, laden with food, was dispatched to Cork, making a remarkably quick passage.
The famine in Ireland in 1847 awakened much sympathy in the United States, and the ship Jamestown, laden with food, was dispatched to Cork, making a remarkably quick passage.
THE WAR SHIP OF PEACE
[1847]
Sweet land of song, thy harp doth hangUpon the willow now,While famine's blight and fever's pangStamps mis'ry on thy brow;Yet take thy harp and raise thy voice,Though weak and low it be,And let thy sinking heart rejoiceIn friends still left to thee.Look out! look out! across the seaThat girds thy em'rald shore,A ship of war is bound to thee,But with no war-like store.Her thunders sleep; 'tis mercy's breathThat wafts her o'er the sea;She goes not forth to deal out death,But bears new life to thee.Thy wasted hands can scarcely strikeThe chords of grateful praise,Thy plaintive tone is now unlikeThe voice of prouder days;Yet, e'en in sorrow, tuneful still,Let Erin's voice proclaimIn bardic praise on ev'ry hillColumbia's glorious name.Samuel Lover.
Sweet land of song, thy harp doth hangUpon the willow now,While famine's blight and fever's pangStamps mis'ry on thy brow;Yet take thy harp and raise thy voice,Though weak and low it be,And let thy sinking heart rejoiceIn friends still left to thee.Look out! look out! across the seaThat girds thy em'rald shore,A ship of war is bound to thee,But with no war-like store.Her thunders sleep; 'tis mercy's breathThat wafts her o'er the sea;She goes not forth to deal out death,But bears new life to thee.Thy wasted hands can scarcely strikeThe chords of grateful praise,Thy plaintive tone is now unlikeThe voice of prouder days;Yet, e'en in sorrow, tuneful still,Let Erin's voice proclaimIn bardic praise on ev'ry hillColumbia's glorious name.Samuel Lover.
Sweet land of song, thy harp doth hangUpon the willow now,While famine's blight and fever's pangStamps mis'ry on thy brow;Yet take thy harp and raise thy voice,Though weak and low it be,And let thy sinking heart rejoiceIn friends still left to thee.
Look out! look out! across the seaThat girds thy em'rald shore,A ship of war is bound to thee,But with no war-like store.Her thunders sleep; 'tis mercy's breathThat wafts her o'er the sea;She goes not forth to deal out death,But bears new life to thee.
Thy wasted hands can scarcely strikeThe chords of grateful praise,Thy plaintive tone is now unlikeThe voice of prouder days;Yet, e'en in sorrow, tuneful still,Let Erin's voice proclaimIn bardic praise on ev'ry hillColumbia's glorious name.
Samuel Lover.
On June 8, 1848, Henry Clay was defeated by Zachary Taylor for the Whig nomination for the presidency.
On June 8, 1848, Henry Clay was defeated by Zachary Taylor for the Whig nomination for the presidency.
ON THE DEFEAT OF HENRY CLAY
[June 8, 1848]
Fallen? How fallen? States and empires fall;O'er towers and rock-built walls,And perished nations, floods to tempests callWith hollow sound along the sea of time:The great man never falls.He lives, he towers aloft, he stands sublime—They fallwho give him notThe honor here that suits his future name—They die and are forgot.O Giant loud and blind! the great man's fameIs his own shadow and not cast by thee—A shadow that shall growAs down the heaven of time the sun descends,And on the world shall throwHis god-like image, till it sinks where blendsTime's dim horizon with Eternity.William Wilberforce Lord.
Fallen? How fallen? States and empires fall;O'er towers and rock-built walls,And perished nations, floods to tempests callWith hollow sound along the sea of time:The great man never falls.He lives, he towers aloft, he stands sublime—They fallwho give him notThe honor here that suits his future name—They die and are forgot.O Giant loud and blind! the great man's fameIs his own shadow and not cast by thee—A shadow that shall growAs down the heaven of time the sun descends,And on the world shall throwHis god-like image, till it sinks where blendsTime's dim horizon with Eternity.William Wilberforce Lord.
Fallen? How fallen? States and empires fall;O'er towers and rock-built walls,And perished nations, floods to tempests callWith hollow sound along the sea of time:The great man never falls.He lives, he towers aloft, he stands sublime—They fallwho give him notThe honor here that suits his future name—They die and are forgot.O Giant loud and blind! the great man's fameIs his own shadow and not cast by thee—A shadow that shall growAs down the heaven of time the sun descends,And on the world shall throwHis god-like image, till it sinks where blendsTime's dim horizon with Eternity.
William Wilberforce Lord.
Margaret Fuller Ossoli, her husband, the Marquis Ossoli, and their child, were drowned off Fire Island, July 16, 1850, while returning from Europe in the ship Elizabeth. The ship was driven ashore in a storm, and broken up by the waves.
Margaret Fuller Ossoli, her husband, the Marquis Ossoli, and their child, were drowned off Fire Island, July 16, 1850, while returning from Europe in the ship Elizabeth. The ship was driven ashore in a storm, and broken up by the waves.
ON THE DEATH OF M. D'OSSOLI AND HIS WIFE, MARGARET FULLER
[July 16, 1850]
Over his millions Death has lawful power,But over thee, brave D'Ossoli! none, none.After a longer struggle, in a fightWorthy of Italy, to youth restored,Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the surgeOf the Atlantic; on its shore; in reachOf help; in trust of refuge; sunk with allPrecious on earth to thee—a child, a wife!Proud as thou wert of her, AmericaIs prouder, showing to her sons how highSwells woman's courage in a virtuous breast.She would not leave behind her those she loved;Such solitary safety might becomeOthers; not her; not her who stood besideThe pallet of the wounded, when the worstOf France and Perfidy assailed the wallsOf unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul,Renowned for the strength of genius, Margaret!Rest with the twain too dear! My words are few,And shortly none will hear my failing voice,But the same language with more full appealShall hail thee. Many are the sons of songWhom thou hast heard upon thy native plainsWorthy to sing of thee: the hour is come;Take we our seats and let the dirge begin.Walter Savage Landor.
Over his millions Death has lawful power,But over thee, brave D'Ossoli! none, none.After a longer struggle, in a fightWorthy of Italy, to youth restored,Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the surgeOf the Atlantic; on its shore; in reachOf help; in trust of refuge; sunk with allPrecious on earth to thee—a child, a wife!Proud as thou wert of her, AmericaIs prouder, showing to her sons how highSwells woman's courage in a virtuous breast.She would not leave behind her those she loved;Such solitary safety might becomeOthers; not her; not her who stood besideThe pallet of the wounded, when the worstOf France and Perfidy assailed the wallsOf unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul,Renowned for the strength of genius, Margaret!Rest with the twain too dear! My words are few,And shortly none will hear my failing voice,But the same language with more full appealShall hail thee. Many are the sons of songWhom thou hast heard upon thy native plainsWorthy to sing of thee: the hour is come;Take we our seats and let the dirge begin.Walter Savage Landor.
Over his millions Death has lawful power,But over thee, brave D'Ossoli! none, none.After a longer struggle, in a fightWorthy of Italy, to youth restored,Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the surgeOf the Atlantic; on its shore; in reachOf help; in trust of refuge; sunk with allPrecious on earth to thee—a child, a wife!Proud as thou wert of her, AmericaIs prouder, showing to her sons how highSwells woman's courage in a virtuous breast.She would not leave behind her those she loved;Such solitary safety might becomeOthers; not her; not her who stood besideThe pallet of the wounded, when the worstOf France and Perfidy assailed the wallsOf unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul,Renowned for the strength of genius, Margaret!Rest with the twain too dear! My words are few,And shortly none will hear my failing voice,But the same language with more full appealShall hail thee. Many are the sons of songWhom thou hast heard upon thy native plainsWorthy to sing of thee: the hour is come;Take we our seats and let the dirge begin.
Walter Savage Landor.
The following verses fromPunchdescribe various events of 1851—the winning of the international yacht race by the America; the project for a canal across the isthmus—and comment upon the ingenuity of some Yankee inventions.
The following verses fromPunchdescribe various events of 1851—the winning of the international yacht race by the America; the project for a canal across the isthmus—and comment upon the ingenuity of some Yankee inventions.
THE LAST APPENDIX TO "YANKEE DOODLE"
[Punch, 1851]
Yankee Doodle sent to TownHis goods for exhibition;Everybody ran him down,And laugh'd at his position.They thought him all the world behind;A goney, muff, or noodle;Laugh on, good people,—never mind—Says quiet Yankee Doodle.Chorus—Yankee Doodle, keep it up,Yankee Doodle Dandy!Mind the music and the step,And with the girls be handy!Yankee Doodle had a craft,A rather tidy clipper,And he challenged, while they laughed,The Britishers to whip her.Their whole yacht-squadron she outsped,And that on their own water;Of all the lot she went ahead,And they came nowhere arter.O'er Panamà there was a schemeLong talked of, to pursue aShort route—which many thought a dream—By Lake Nicaragua.John Bull discussed the plan on foot,With slow irresolution,While Yankee Doodle went and putIt into execution.A steamer of the Collins line,A Yankee Doodle's notion,Has also quickest cut the brineAcross the Atlantic Ocean.And British Agents, no ways slowHer merits to discover,Have been and bought her—just to towThe Cunard packets over.Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack,But that again don't mention:I guess that Colts' revolvers whackTheir very first invention.By Yankee Doodle, too, you're beatDownright in Agriculture,With his machine for reaping wheat,Chawed up as by a vulture.You also fancied, in your pride,Which truly is tarnation,Them British locks of yourn defiedThe rogues of all creation;But Chubbs' and Bramah's Hobbs has picked,And you must now be viewed allAs having been completely lickedBy glorious Yankee Doodle.
Yankee Doodle sent to TownHis goods for exhibition;Everybody ran him down,And laugh'd at his position.They thought him all the world behind;A goney, muff, or noodle;Laugh on, good people,—never mind—Says quiet Yankee Doodle.Chorus—Yankee Doodle, keep it up,Yankee Doodle Dandy!Mind the music and the step,And with the girls be handy!Yankee Doodle had a craft,A rather tidy clipper,And he challenged, while they laughed,The Britishers to whip her.Their whole yacht-squadron she outsped,And that on their own water;Of all the lot she went ahead,And they came nowhere arter.O'er Panamà there was a schemeLong talked of, to pursue aShort route—which many thought a dream—By Lake Nicaragua.John Bull discussed the plan on foot,With slow irresolution,While Yankee Doodle went and putIt into execution.A steamer of the Collins line,A Yankee Doodle's notion,Has also quickest cut the brineAcross the Atlantic Ocean.And British Agents, no ways slowHer merits to discover,Have been and bought her—just to towThe Cunard packets over.Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack,But that again don't mention:I guess that Colts' revolvers whackTheir very first invention.By Yankee Doodle, too, you're beatDownright in Agriculture,With his machine for reaping wheat,Chawed up as by a vulture.You also fancied, in your pride,Which truly is tarnation,Them British locks of yourn defiedThe rogues of all creation;But Chubbs' and Bramah's Hobbs has picked,And you must now be viewed allAs having been completely lickedBy glorious Yankee Doodle.
Yankee Doodle sent to TownHis goods for exhibition;Everybody ran him down,And laugh'd at his position.They thought him all the world behind;A goney, muff, or noodle;Laugh on, good people,—never mind—Says quiet Yankee Doodle.Chorus—Yankee Doodle, keep it up,Yankee Doodle Dandy!Mind the music and the step,And with the girls be handy!
Yankee Doodle had a craft,A rather tidy clipper,And he challenged, while they laughed,The Britishers to whip her.Their whole yacht-squadron she outsped,And that on their own water;Of all the lot she went ahead,And they came nowhere arter.
O'er Panamà there was a schemeLong talked of, to pursue aShort route—which many thought a dream—By Lake Nicaragua.John Bull discussed the plan on foot,With slow irresolution,While Yankee Doodle went and putIt into execution.
A steamer of the Collins line,A Yankee Doodle's notion,Has also quickest cut the brineAcross the Atlantic Ocean.And British Agents, no ways slowHer merits to discover,Have been and bought her—just to towThe Cunard packets over.
Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack,But that again don't mention:I guess that Colts' revolvers whackTheir very first invention.By Yankee Doodle, too, you're beatDownright in Agriculture,With his machine for reaping wheat,Chawed up as by a vulture.
You also fancied, in your pride,Which truly is tarnation,Them British locks of yourn defiedThe rogues of all creation;But Chubbs' and Bramah's Hobbs has picked,And you must now be viewed allAs having been completely lickedBy glorious Yankee Doodle.
DANIEL WEBSTER
[Died October 24, 1852]
When life hath run its largest roundOf toil and triumph, joy and woe,How brief a storied page is foundTo compass all its outward show!The world-tried sailor tires and droops;His flag is rent, his keel forgot;His farthest voyages seem but loopsThat float from life's entangled knot.But when within the narrow spaceSome larger soul hath lived and wrought,Whose sight was open to embraceThe boundless realms of deed and thought,—When, stricken by the freezing blast,A nation's living pillars fall,How rich the storied page, how vast,A word, a whisper, can recall!No medal lifts its fretted face,Nor speaking marble cheats your eye;Yet, while these pictured lines I trace,A living image passes by:A roof beneath the mountain pines;The cloisters of a hill-girt plain;The front of life's embattled lines;A mound beside the heaving main.These are the scenes: a boy appears;Set life's round dial in the sun.Count the swift arc of seventy years,His frame is dust; his task is done.Yet pause upon the noontide hour,Ere the declining sun has laidHis bleaching rays on manhood's power,And look upon the mighty shade.No gloom that stately shape can hide,No change uncrown his brow: behold!Dark, calm, large-fronted, lightning-eyed,Earth has no double from its mould!Ere from the fields by valor wonThe battle-smoke had rolled away,And bared the blood-red setting sun,His eyes were opened on the day.His land was but a shelving strip,Black with the strife that made it free;He lived to see its banners dipTheir fringes in the Western sea.The boundless prairies learned his name,His words the mountain echoes knew;The Northern breezes swept his fameFrom icy lake to warm bayou.In toil he lived; in peace he died;When life's full cycle was complete,Put off his robes of power and pride,And laid them at his Master's feet.His rest is by the storm-swept wavesWhom life's wild tempests roughly tried,Whose heart was like the streaming cavesOf ocean, throbbing at his side.Death's cold white hand is like the snowLaid softly on the furrowed hill,It hides the broken seams below,And leaves the summit brighter still.In vain the envious tongue upbraids;His name a nation's heart shall keepTill morning's latest sunlight fadesOn the blue tablet of the deep!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
When life hath run its largest roundOf toil and triumph, joy and woe,How brief a storied page is foundTo compass all its outward show!The world-tried sailor tires and droops;His flag is rent, his keel forgot;His farthest voyages seem but loopsThat float from life's entangled knot.But when within the narrow spaceSome larger soul hath lived and wrought,Whose sight was open to embraceThe boundless realms of deed and thought,—When, stricken by the freezing blast,A nation's living pillars fall,How rich the storied page, how vast,A word, a whisper, can recall!No medal lifts its fretted face,Nor speaking marble cheats your eye;Yet, while these pictured lines I trace,A living image passes by:A roof beneath the mountain pines;The cloisters of a hill-girt plain;The front of life's embattled lines;A mound beside the heaving main.These are the scenes: a boy appears;Set life's round dial in the sun.Count the swift arc of seventy years,His frame is dust; his task is done.Yet pause upon the noontide hour,Ere the declining sun has laidHis bleaching rays on manhood's power,And look upon the mighty shade.No gloom that stately shape can hide,No change uncrown his brow: behold!Dark, calm, large-fronted, lightning-eyed,Earth has no double from its mould!Ere from the fields by valor wonThe battle-smoke had rolled away,And bared the blood-red setting sun,His eyes were opened on the day.His land was but a shelving strip,Black with the strife that made it free;He lived to see its banners dipTheir fringes in the Western sea.The boundless prairies learned his name,His words the mountain echoes knew;The Northern breezes swept his fameFrom icy lake to warm bayou.In toil he lived; in peace he died;When life's full cycle was complete,Put off his robes of power and pride,And laid them at his Master's feet.His rest is by the storm-swept wavesWhom life's wild tempests roughly tried,Whose heart was like the streaming cavesOf ocean, throbbing at his side.Death's cold white hand is like the snowLaid softly on the furrowed hill,It hides the broken seams below,And leaves the summit brighter still.In vain the envious tongue upbraids;His name a nation's heart shall keepTill morning's latest sunlight fadesOn the blue tablet of the deep!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
When life hath run its largest roundOf toil and triumph, joy and woe,How brief a storied page is foundTo compass all its outward show!
The world-tried sailor tires and droops;His flag is rent, his keel forgot;His farthest voyages seem but loopsThat float from life's entangled knot.
But when within the narrow spaceSome larger soul hath lived and wrought,Whose sight was open to embraceThe boundless realms of deed and thought,—
When, stricken by the freezing blast,A nation's living pillars fall,How rich the storied page, how vast,A word, a whisper, can recall!
No medal lifts its fretted face,Nor speaking marble cheats your eye;Yet, while these pictured lines I trace,A living image passes by:
A roof beneath the mountain pines;The cloisters of a hill-girt plain;The front of life's embattled lines;A mound beside the heaving main.
These are the scenes: a boy appears;Set life's round dial in the sun.Count the swift arc of seventy years,His frame is dust; his task is done.
Yet pause upon the noontide hour,Ere the declining sun has laidHis bleaching rays on manhood's power,And look upon the mighty shade.
No gloom that stately shape can hide,No change uncrown his brow: behold!Dark, calm, large-fronted, lightning-eyed,Earth has no double from its mould!
Ere from the fields by valor wonThe battle-smoke had rolled away,And bared the blood-red setting sun,His eyes were opened on the day.
His land was but a shelving strip,Black with the strife that made it free;He lived to see its banners dipTheir fringes in the Western sea.
The boundless prairies learned his name,His words the mountain echoes knew;The Northern breezes swept his fameFrom icy lake to warm bayou.
In toil he lived; in peace he died;When life's full cycle was complete,Put off his robes of power and pride,And laid them at his Master's feet.
His rest is by the storm-swept wavesWhom life's wild tempests roughly tried,Whose heart was like the streaming cavesOf ocean, throbbing at his side.
Death's cold white hand is like the snowLaid softly on the furrowed hill,It hides the broken seams below,And leaves the summit brighter still.
In vain the envious tongue upbraids;His name a nation's heart shall keepTill morning's latest sunlight fadesOn the blue tablet of the deep!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
In 1854 a survey was ordered of the Isthmus of Darien, and Lieutenant Isaac G. Strain was placed in charge of the work. His party was reduced to great extremities in crossing the isthmus, but bore their sufferings with a heroism seldom surpassed.
In 1854 a survey was ordered of the Isthmus of Darien, and Lieutenant Isaac G. Strain was placed in charge of the work. His party was reduced to great extremities in crossing the isthmus, but bore their sufferings with a heroism seldom surpassed.
THE FLAG
AN INCIDENT OF STRAIN'S EXPEDITION
[1854]
I never have got the bearings quite,Though I've followed the course for many a year,If he was crazy, clean outright,Or only what you might say was "queer."He was just a simple sailor man.I mind it as well as yisterday,When we messed aboard of the old Cyane.Lord! how the time does slip away!That was five and thirty year ago,And I never expect such times again,For sailors wasn't afraid to stowThemselves on a Yankee vessel then.He was only a sort of bosun's mate,But every inch of him taut and trim;Stars and anchors and togs of stateTailors don't build for the like of him.He flew a no-account sort of name,A reg'lar fo'castle "Jim" or "Jack,"With a plain "McGinnis" abaft the same,Giner'ly reefed to simple "Mack."Mack, we allowed, was sorter queer,—Ballast or compass wasn't right.Till he licked four Juicers one day, a fearPrevailed that he hadn't larned to fight.But I reckon the Captain knowed his man,When he put the flag in his hand the dayThat we went ashore from the old Cyane,On a madman's cruise for Darien Bay.Forty days in the wildernessWe toiled and suffered and starved with Strain,Losing the number of many a messIn the Devil's swamps of the Spanish Main.All of us starved, and many died.One laid down, in his dull despair;His stronger messmate went to his side—We left them both in the jungle there.It was hard to part with shipmates so;But standing by would have done no good.We heard them moaning all day, so slowWe dragged along through the weary wood.McGinnis, he suffered the worst of all;Not that he ever piped his eyeOr wouldn't have answered to the callIf they'd sounded it for "All hands to die."I guess 'twould have sounded for him before,But the grit inside of him kept him strong,Till we met relief on the river shore;And we all broke down when it came along.All but McGinnis. Gaunt and tall,Touching his hat, and standing square:"Captain, the Flag."—And that was all;He just keeled over and foundered there."The Flag?" We thought he had lost his head—It mightn't be much to lose at best—Till we came, by and by, to dig his bed,And we found it folded around his breast.He laid so calm and smiling there,With the flag wrapped tight about his heart;Maybe he saw his course all fair,Only—wecouldn't read the chart.James Jeffrey Roche.
I never have got the bearings quite,Though I've followed the course for many a year,If he was crazy, clean outright,Or only what you might say was "queer."He was just a simple sailor man.I mind it as well as yisterday,When we messed aboard of the old Cyane.Lord! how the time does slip away!That was five and thirty year ago,And I never expect such times again,For sailors wasn't afraid to stowThemselves on a Yankee vessel then.He was only a sort of bosun's mate,But every inch of him taut and trim;Stars and anchors and togs of stateTailors don't build for the like of him.He flew a no-account sort of name,A reg'lar fo'castle "Jim" or "Jack,"With a plain "McGinnis" abaft the same,Giner'ly reefed to simple "Mack."Mack, we allowed, was sorter queer,—Ballast or compass wasn't right.Till he licked four Juicers one day, a fearPrevailed that he hadn't larned to fight.But I reckon the Captain knowed his man,When he put the flag in his hand the dayThat we went ashore from the old Cyane,On a madman's cruise for Darien Bay.Forty days in the wildernessWe toiled and suffered and starved with Strain,Losing the number of many a messIn the Devil's swamps of the Spanish Main.All of us starved, and many died.One laid down, in his dull despair;His stronger messmate went to his side—We left them both in the jungle there.It was hard to part with shipmates so;But standing by would have done no good.We heard them moaning all day, so slowWe dragged along through the weary wood.McGinnis, he suffered the worst of all;Not that he ever piped his eyeOr wouldn't have answered to the callIf they'd sounded it for "All hands to die."I guess 'twould have sounded for him before,But the grit inside of him kept him strong,Till we met relief on the river shore;And we all broke down when it came along.All but McGinnis. Gaunt and tall,Touching his hat, and standing square:"Captain, the Flag."—And that was all;He just keeled over and foundered there."The Flag?" We thought he had lost his head—It mightn't be much to lose at best—Till we came, by and by, to dig his bed,And we found it folded around his breast.He laid so calm and smiling there,With the flag wrapped tight about his heart;Maybe he saw his course all fair,Only—wecouldn't read the chart.James Jeffrey Roche.
I never have got the bearings quite,Though I've followed the course for many a year,If he was crazy, clean outright,Or only what you might say was "queer."
He was just a simple sailor man.I mind it as well as yisterday,When we messed aboard of the old Cyane.Lord! how the time does slip away!That was five and thirty year ago,And I never expect such times again,For sailors wasn't afraid to stowThemselves on a Yankee vessel then.He was only a sort of bosun's mate,But every inch of him taut and trim;Stars and anchors and togs of stateTailors don't build for the like of him.He flew a no-account sort of name,A reg'lar fo'castle "Jim" or "Jack,"With a plain "McGinnis" abaft the same,Giner'ly reefed to simple "Mack."Mack, we allowed, was sorter queer,—Ballast or compass wasn't right.Till he licked four Juicers one day, a fearPrevailed that he hadn't larned to fight.But I reckon the Captain knowed his man,When he put the flag in his hand the dayThat we went ashore from the old Cyane,On a madman's cruise for Darien Bay.
Forty days in the wildernessWe toiled and suffered and starved with Strain,Losing the number of many a messIn the Devil's swamps of the Spanish Main.All of us starved, and many died.One laid down, in his dull despair;His stronger messmate went to his side—We left them both in the jungle there.It was hard to part with shipmates so;But standing by would have done no good.We heard them moaning all day, so slowWe dragged along through the weary wood.McGinnis, he suffered the worst of all;Not that he ever piped his eyeOr wouldn't have answered to the callIf they'd sounded it for "All hands to die."I guess 'twould have sounded for him before,But the grit inside of him kept him strong,Till we met relief on the river shore;And we all broke down when it came along.
All but McGinnis. Gaunt and tall,Touching his hat, and standing square:"Captain, the Flag."—And that was all;He just keeled over and foundered there."The Flag?" We thought he had lost his head—It mightn't be much to lose at best—Till we came, by and by, to dig his bed,And we found it folded around his breast.He laid so calm and smiling there,With the flag wrapped tight about his heart;Maybe he saw his course all fair,Only—wecouldn't read the chart.
James Jeffrey Roche.
On February 16, 1857, Elisha Kent Kane, explorer of the Arctic, died at Havana, Cuba, whither he had gone in the hope of regaining a health shattered by his sufferings in the north.
On February 16, 1857, Elisha Kent Kane, explorer of the Arctic, died at Havana, Cuba, whither he had gone in the hope of regaining a health shattered by his sufferings in the north.
KANE
Aloft upon an old basaltic crag,Which, scalp'd by keen winds that defend the Pole,Gazes with dead face on the seas that rollAround the secret of the mystic zone,A mighty nation's star-bespangled flagFlutters alone,And underneath, upon the lifeless frontOf that drear cliff, a simple name is traced;Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt,But with a rocky purpose in his soul,Breasted the gathering snows,Clung to the drifting floes,By want beleaguer'd, and by winter chased,Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste.Not many months ago we greeted him,Crown'd with the icy honors of the North,Across the land his hard-won fame went forth,And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb;His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim,Burst from decorous quiet as he came;Hot Southern lips with eloquence aflameSounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim,Proffer'd its horny hand. The large-lung'd West,From out its giant breast,Yell'd its frank welcome. And from main to main,Jubilant to the sky,Thunder'd the mighty cry,Honor to Kane!In vain, in vain beneath his feet we flungThe reddening roses! All in vain we pour'dThe golden wine, and round the shining boardSent the toast circling, till the rafters rungWith the thrice-tripled honors of the feast!Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceasedEre the pure light that sparkled in his eyes,Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies,Faded and faded! And the brave young heartThat the relentless Arctic winds had robb'dOf all its vital heat, in that long questFor the lost captain, now within his breastMore and more faintly throbb'd.His was the victory; but as his graspClosed on the laurel crown with eager clasp,Death launch'd a whistling dart;And ere the thunders of applause were doneHis bright eyes closed forever on the sun!Too late, too late the splendid prize he wonIn the Olympic race of Science and of Art!Like to some shatter'd berg that, pale and lone,Drifts from the white North to a tropic zone,And in the burning dayWastes peak by peak away,Till on some rosy evenIt dies with sunlight blessing it; so heTranquilly floated to a Southern sea,And melted into heaven.He needs no tears, who lived a noble life;We will not weep for him who died so well,But we will gather round the hearth, and tellThe story of his strife;Such homage suits him well,Better than funeral pomp or passing bell.What tale of peril and self-sacrifice!Prison'd amid the fastnesses of ice,With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow!Night lengthening into months, the ravenous floeCrunching the massive ships, as the white bearCrunches his prey. The insufficient shareOf loathsome food,The lethargy of famine, the despairUrging to labor, nervelessly pursued,Toil done with skinny arms, and faces huedLike pallid masks, while dolefully behindGlimmer'd the fading embers of a mind!That awful hour, when through the prostrate bandDelirium stalk'd, laying his burning handUpon the ghastly foreheads of the crew.The whispers of rebellion, faint and fewAt first, but deepening ever till they grewInto black thoughts of murder; such the throngOf horrors bound the hero. High the songShould be that hymns the noble part he play'd!Sinking himself, yet ministering aidTo all around him. By a mighty willLiving defiant of the wants that kill,Because his death would seal his comrades' fate;Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skillThose Polar waters, dark and desolate.Equal to every trial, every fate,He stands, until Spring, tardy with relief,Unlocks the icy gate,And the pale prisoners thread the world once more,To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shoreBearing their dying chief.Time was when he should gain his spurs of goldFrom royal hands, who woo'd the knightly state;The knell of old formalities is toll'd,And the world's knights are now self-consecrate.No grander episode doth chivalry holdIn all its annals, back to Charlemagne,Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain,Faithfully kept through hunger and through cold,By the good Christian knight,Elisha Kane!Fitz-James O'Brien.
Aloft upon an old basaltic crag,Which, scalp'd by keen winds that defend the Pole,Gazes with dead face on the seas that rollAround the secret of the mystic zone,A mighty nation's star-bespangled flagFlutters alone,And underneath, upon the lifeless frontOf that drear cliff, a simple name is traced;Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt,But with a rocky purpose in his soul,Breasted the gathering snows,Clung to the drifting floes,By want beleaguer'd, and by winter chased,Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste.Not many months ago we greeted him,Crown'd with the icy honors of the North,Across the land his hard-won fame went forth,And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb;His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim,Burst from decorous quiet as he came;Hot Southern lips with eloquence aflameSounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim,Proffer'd its horny hand. The large-lung'd West,From out its giant breast,Yell'd its frank welcome. And from main to main,Jubilant to the sky,Thunder'd the mighty cry,Honor to Kane!In vain, in vain beneath his feet we flungThe reddening roses! All in vain we pour'dThe golden wine, and round the shining boardSent the toast circling, till the rafters rungWith the thrice-tripled honors of the feast!Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceasedEre the pure light that sparkled in his eyes,Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies,Faded and faded! And the brave young heartThat the relentless Arctic winds had robb'dOf all its vital heat, in that long questFor the lost captain, now within his breastMore and more faintly throbb'd.His was the victory; but as his graspClosed on the laurel crown with eager clasp,Death launch'd a whistling dart;And ere the thunders of applause were doneHis bright eyes closed forever on the sun!Too late, too late the splendid prize he wonIn the Olympic race of Science and of Art!Like to some shatter'd berg that, pale and lone,Drifts from the white North to a tropic zone,And in the burning dayWastes peak by peak away,Till on some rosy evenIt dies with sunlight blessing it; so heTranquilly floated to a Southern sea,And melted into heaven.He needs no tears, who lived a noble life;We will not weep for him who died so well,But we will gather round the hearth, and tellThe story of his strife;Such homage suits him well,Better than funeral pomp or passing bell.What tale of peril and self-sacrifice!Prison'd amid the fastnesses of ice,With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow!Night lengthening into months, the ravenous floeCrunching the massive ships, as the white bearCrunches his prey. The insufficient shareOf loathsome food,The lethargy of famine, the despairUrging to labor, nervelessly pursued,Toil done with skinny arms, and faces huedLike pallid masks, while dolefully behindGlimmer'd the fading embers of a mind!That awful hour, when through the prostrate bandDelirium stalk'd, laying his burning handUpon the ghastly foreheads of the crew.The whispers of rebellion, faint and fewAt first, but deepening ever till they grewInto black thoughts of murder; such the throngOf horrors bound the hero. High the songShould be that hymns the noble part he play'd!Sinking himself, yet ministering aidTo all around him. By a mighty willLiving defiant of the wants that kill,Because his death would seal his comrades' fate;Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skillThose Polar waters, dark and desolate.Equal to every trial, every fate,He stands, until Spring, tardy with relief,Unlocks the icy gate,And the pale prisoners thread the world once more,To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shoreBearing their dying chief.Time was when he should gain his spurs of goldFrom royal hands, who woo'd the knightly state;The knell of old formalities is toll'd,And the world's knights are now self-consecrate.No grander episode doth chivalry holdIn all its annals, back to Charlemagne,Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain,Faithfully kept through hunger and through cold,By the good Christian knight,Elisha Kane!Fitz-James O'Brien.
Aloft upon an old basaltic crag,Which, scalp'd by keen winds that defend the Pole,Gazes with dead face on the seas that rollAround the secret of the mystic zone,A mighty nation's star-bespangled flagFlutters alone,And underneath, upon the lifeless frontOf that drear cliff, a simple name is traced;Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt,But with a rocky purpose in his soul,Breasted the gathering snows,Clung to the drifting floes,By want beleaguer'd, and by winter chased,Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste.
Not many months ago we greeted him,Crown'd with the icy honors of the North,Across the land his hard-won fame went forth,And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb;His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim,Burst from decorous quiet as he came;Hot Southern lips with eloquence aflameSounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim,Proffer'd its horny hand. The large-lung'd West,From out its giant breast,Yell'd its frank welcome. And from main to main,Jubilant to the sky,Thunder'd the mighty cry,Honor to Kane!
In vain, in vain beneath his feet we flungThe reddening roses! All in vain we pour'dThe golden wine, and round the shining boardSent the toast circling, till the rafters rungWith the thrice-tripled honors of the feast!Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceasedEre the pure light that sparkled in his eyes,Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies,Faded and faded! And the brave young heartThat the relentless Arctic winds had robb'dOf all its vital heat, in that long questFor the lost captain, now within his breastMore and more faintly throbb'd.His was the victory; but as his graspClosed on the laurel crown with eager clasp,Death launch'd a whistling dart;And ere the thunders of applause were doneHis bright eyes closed forever on the sun!Too late, too late the splendid prize he wonIn the Olympic race of Science and of Art!Like to some shatter'd berg that, pale and lone,Drifts from the white North to a tropic zone,And in the burning dayWastes peak by peak away,Till on some rosy evenIt dies with sunlight blessing it; so heTranquilly floated to a Southern sea,And melted into heaven.
He needs no tears, who lived a noble life;We will not weep for him who died so well,But we will gather round the hearth, and tellThe story of his strife;Such homage suits him well,Better than funeral pomp or passing bell.What tale of peril and self-sacrifice!Prison'd amid the fastnesses of ice,With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow!Night lengthening into months, the ravenous floeCrunching the massive ships, as the white bearCrunches his prey. The insufficient shareOf loathsome food,The lethargy of famine, the despairUrging to labor, nervelessly pursued,Toil done with skinny arms, and faces huedLike pallid masks, while dolefully behindGlimmer'd the fading embers of a mind!That awful hour, when through the prostrate bandDelirium stalk'd, laying his burning handUpon the ghastly foreheads of the crew.The whispers of rebellion, faint and fewAt first, but deepening ever till they grewInto black thoughts of murder; such the throngOf horrors bound the hero. High the songShould be that hymns the noble part he play'd!Sinking himself, yet ministering aidTo all around him. By a mighty willLiving defiant of the wants that kill,Because his death would seal his comrades' fate;Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skillThose Polar waters, dark and desolate.Equal to every trial, every fate,He stands, until Spring, tardy with relief,Unlocks the icy gate,And the pale prisoners thread the world once more,To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shoreBearing their dying chief.
Time was when he should gain his spurs of goldFrom royal hands, who woo'd the knightly state;The knell of old formalities is toll'd,And the world's knights are now self-consecrate.No grander episode doth chivalry holdIn all its annals, back to Charlemagne,Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain,Faithfully kept through hunger and through cold,By the good Christian knight,Elisha Kane!
Fitz-James O'Brien.
On September 12, 1857, the Central America was lost at sea in a great storm off Cape Hatteras. Captain William Lewis Herndon, of the navy, was in command. His tranquil courage preserved discipline up to the last, and until his passengers, officers, and crew were all in the boats. Seeing that the last boat was already overloaded, Captain Herndon refused to add to its danger, and, ordering it off, went down with his ship.
On September 12, 1857, the Central America was lost at sea in a great storm off Cape Hatteras. Captain William Lewis Herndon, of the navy, was in command. His tranquil courage preserved discipline up to the last, and until his passengers, officers, and crew were all in the boats. Seeing that the last boat was already overloaded, Captain Herndon refused to add to its danger, and, ordering it off, went down with his ship.
HERNDON
[September 12, 1857]