Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,Hid in this silent, dull retreat,Untouched thy homed blossoms blow,Unseen thy little branches greet:No roving foot shall crush thee here,No busy hand provoke a tear.By Nature's self in white arrayed,She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,And planted here the guardian shade,And sent soft waters murmuring by;Thus quietly thy summer goes,Thy days declining to repose.Smit with those charms, that must decay,I grieve to see your future doom;They died—nor were those flowers more gay,The flowers that did in Eden bloom;Unpitying frosts, and Autumn's power,Shall leave no vestige of this flower.From morning suns and evening dewsAt first thy little being came;If nothing once, you nothing lose,For when you die you are the same;The space between is but an hour,The frail duration of a flower.
Thou, born to sip the lake or spring,Or quaff the waters of the stream,Why hither come on vagrant wing?Does Bacchus tempting seem,—Did he for you this glass prepare?Will I admit you to a share?Did storms harass or foes perplex,Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay—Did wars distress, or labors vex,Or did you miss your way?A better seat you could not takeThan on the margin of this lake.Welcome!—I hail you to my glassAll welcome, here, you find;Here, let the cloud of trouble pass,Here, be all care resigned.This fluid never fails to please,And drown the griefs of men or bees.What forced you here we cannot know,And you will scarcely tell,But cheery we would have you goAnd bid a glad farewell:On lighter wings we bid you fly,Your dart will now all foes defy.Yet take not, oh! too deep a drink,And in this ocean die;Here bigger bees than you might sink,Even bees full six feet high.Like Pharaoh, then, you would be saidTo perish in a sea of red.Do as you please, your will is mine;Enjoy it without fear,And your grave will be this glass of wine,Your epitaph—a tear—Go, take your seat in Charon's boat;We'll tell the hive, you died afloat.
In spite of all the learned have said,I still my old opinion keep;The posture that we give the deadPoints out the soul's eternal sleep.Not so the ancients of these lands;—The Indian, when from life released,Again is seated with his friends,And shares again the joyous feast.His imaged birds, and painted bowl,And venison, for a journey dressed,Bespeak the nature of the soul,Activity, that wants no rest.His bow for action ready bent,And arrows, with a head of stone,Can only mean that life is spent,And not the old ideas gone.Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way,No fraud upon the dead commit,—Observe the swelling turf, and say,They do not die, but here they sit.Here still a lofty rock remains,On which the curious eye may trace(Now wasted half by wearing rains)The fancies of a ruder race.Here still an aged elm aspires,Beneath whose far projecting shade(And which the shepherd still admires)children of the forest played.There oft a restless Indian queen(Pale Shebah with her braided hair),And many a barbarous form is seenTo chide the man that lingers there.By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews,In habit for the chase arrayed,The hunter still the deer pursues,The hunter and the deer—a shade!And long shall timorous Fancy seeThe painted chief, and pointed spear,And Reason's self shall bow the kneeTo shadows and delusions here.
At Eutaw Springs the valiant died;Their limbs with dust are covered o'er;Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;How many heroes are no more!If in this wreck of ruin, theyCan yet be thought to claim a tear,O smite thy gentle breast, and sayThe friends of freedom slumber here!Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain,If goodness rules thy generous breast,Sigh for the wasted rural reign;Sigh for the shepherds sunk to rest!Stranger, their humble groves adorn;You too may fall, and ask a tear:'Tis not the beauty of the mornThat proves the evening shall be clear.They saw their injured country's woe,The flaming town, the wasted field;Then rushed to meet the insulting foe;They took the spear—but left the shield.Led by thy conquering standards, Greene,The Britons they compelled to fly:None distant viewed the fatal plain,None grieved in such a cause to die—But, like the Parthian, famed of old,Who, flying, still their arrows threw,These routed Britons, full as bold,Retreated, and retreating slew.Now rest in peace, our patriot band;Though far from nature's limits thrown,We trust they find a happier land,A bright Phoebus of their own.
Gallants attend and hear a friendTrill forth harmonious ditty,Strange things I'll tell which late befellIn Philadelphia city.'Twas early day, as poets say,Just when the sun was rising,A soldier stood on a log of wood,And saw a thing surprising.As in amaze he stood to gaze,The truth can't be denied, sir,He spied a score of kegs or moreCome floating down the tide, sir.A sailor too in jerkin blue,This strange appearance viewing,First damned his eyes, in great surprise,Then said, "Some mischief's brewing."These kegs, I'm told, the rebels hold,Packed up like pickled herring;And they're come down to attack the town,In this new way of ferrying."The soldier flew, the sailor too,And scared almost to death, sir,Wore out their shoes, to spread the news,And ran till out of breath, sir.Now up and down throughout the town,Most frantic scenes were acted;And some ran here, and others there,Like men almost distracted.Some fire cried, which some denied,But said the earth had quaked;And girls and boys, with hideous noise,Ran through the streets half naked.Sir William he, snug as a flea,Lay all this time a snoring,Nor dreamed of harm as he lay warm,In bed with Mrs. Loring.Now in a fright, he starts upright,Awaked by such a clatter;He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries,"For God's sake, what's the matter?"At his bedside he then espied,Sir Erskine at command, sir,Upon one foot he had one boot,And th' other in his hand, sir."Arise, arise," Sir Erskine cries,"The rebels—more's the pity,Without a boat are all afloat,And ranged before the city."The motley crew, in vessels new,With Satan for their guide, sir,Packed up in bags, or wooden kegs,Come driving down the tide, sir."Therefore prepare for bloody war;These kegs must all be routed,Or surely we despised shall be,And British courage doubted."The royal band now ready standAll ranged in dread array, sir,With stomach' stout to see it out,And make a bloody day, sir.The cannons roar from shore to shore.The small arms make a rattle;Since wars began I'm sure no manE'er saw so strange a battle.The rebel dales, the rebel vales,With rebel trees surrounded,The distant woods, the hills and floods,With rebel echoes sounded.The fish below swam to and fro,Attacked from every quarter;Why sure, thought they, the devil's to pay,'Mongst folks above the water.The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly made,Of rebel staves and hoops, sir,Could not oppose their powerful foes,The conquering British troops, sir.From morn to night these men of mightDisplayed amazing courage;And when the sun was fairly down,Retired to sup their porridge.A hundred men with each a pen,Or more upon my word, sir,It is most true would be too few,Their valor to record, sir.Such feats did they perform that day,Against these wicked kegs, sir,That years to come: if they get home,They'll make their boasts and brags, sir.
Hail, Columbia! happy land!Hail, ye heroes! heaven-born band!Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause,Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause,And when the storm of war was gone,Enjoyed the peace your valor won.Let independence be our boast,Ever mindful what it cost;Ever grateful for the prize,Let its altar reach the skies.Firm, united, let us be,Rallying round our Liberty;As a band of brothers joined,Peace and safety we shall find.Immortal patriots! rise once more:Defend your rights, defend your shore:Let no rude foe, with impious hand,Let no rude foe, with impious hand,Invade the shrine where sacred liesOf toil and blood the well-earned prize.While offering peace sincere and just,In Heaven we place a manly trust,That truth and justice will prevail,And every scheme of bondage fail.Firm, united, let us be,Rallying round our Liberty;As a band of brothers joined,Peace and safety we shall find.Sound, sound, the trump of Fame!Let WASHINGTON'S great nameRing through the world with loud applause,Ring through the world with loud applause;Let every clime to Freedom dear,Listen with a joyful ear.With equal skill, and godlike power,He governed in the fearful hourOf horrid war; or guides, with ease,The happier times of honest peace.Firm, united, let us be,Rallying round our Liberty;As a band of brothers joined,Peace and safety we shall find.Behold the chief who now commands,Once more to serve his country, stands—The rock on which the storm will beat,The rock on which the storm will beat;But, armed in virtue firm and true,His hopes are fixed on Heaven and you.When hope was sinking in dismay,And glooms obscured Columbia's day,His steady mind, from changes free.Resolved on death or liberty.Firm, united, let us be,Rallying round our Liberty;As a band of brothers joined,Peace and safety we shall find.
The breezes went steadily through the tall pines,A-saying "oh! hu-ush!" a-saying "oh! hu-ush!"As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse,For Hale in the bush, for Hale in the bush."Keep still!" said the thrush as she nestled her young,In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road."For the tyrants are near, and with them appearWhat bodes us no good, what bodes us no good."The brave captain heard it, and thought of his homeIn a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook.With mother and sister and memories dear,He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook.Cooling shades of the night were coming apace,The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat.The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place,To make his retreat; to make his retreat.He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves.As he passed through the wood; as he passed through the wood;And silently gained his rude launch on the shore,As she played with the flood; as she played with the flood.The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night,Had a murderous will; had a murderous will.They took him and bore him afar from the shore,To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill.No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer,In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell.But he trusted in love, from his Father above.In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well.An ominous owl, with his solemn bass voice,Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by:"The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice,For he must soon die; for he must soon die."The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained,—The cruel general! the cruel general!—His errand from camp, of the ends to be gained,And said that was all; and said that was all.They took him and bound him and bore him away,Down the hill's grassy side; down the hill's grassy side.'Twas there the base hirelings, in royal array,His cause did deride; his cause did deride.Five minutes were given, short moments, no more,For him to repent; for him to repent.He prayed for his mother, he asked not another,To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went.The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed,As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage.And Britons will shudder at gallant Hales blood,As his words do presage, as his words do presage."Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe,Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave;Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe.No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave."
Rejoice, Americans, rejoice!Praise ye the Lord with heart and voice!The treaty's signed with faithful France,And now, like Frenchmen, sing and dance!But when your joy gives way to reason,And friendly hints are not deemed treason,Let me, as well as I am able,Present your Congress with a fable.Tired out with happiness, the frogsSedition croaked through all their bogs;And thus to Jove the restless race,Made out their melancholy case."Famed, as we are, for faith and prayer,We merit sure peculiar care;But can we think great good was meant us,When logs for Governors were sent us?"Which numbers crushed they fell upon,And caused great fear,—till one by one,As courage came, we boldly faced 'em,Then leaped upon 'em, and disgraced 'em!"Great Jove," they croaked, "no longer fool us,None but ourselves are fit to rule us;We are too large, too free a nation,To be encumbered with taxation!"We pray for peace, but wish confusion,Then right or wrong, a—revolution!Our hearts can never bend to obey;Therefore no king—and more we'll pray."Jove smiled, and to their fate resignedThe restless, thankless, rebel kind;Left to themselves, they went to work,First signed a treaty with king Stork.He swore that they, with his alliance,To all the world might bid defiance;Of lawful rule there was an end on't,And frogs were henceforth—independent.At which the croakers, one and all!Proclaimed a feast, and festival!But joy to-day brings grief to-morrow;Their feasting o'er, now enter sorrow!The Stork grew hungry, longed for fish;The monarch could not have his wish;In rage he to the marshes flies,And makes a meal of his allies.Then grew so fond of well-fed frogs,He made a larder of the bogs!Say, Yankees, don't you feel compunction,At your unnatural rash conjunction?Can love for you in him take root,Who's Catholic, and absolute?I'll tell these croakers how he'll treat 'em;Frenchmen, like storks, love frogs—to eat 'em.
I love thy kingdom, Lord,The house of thine abode,The church our blest Redeemer savedWith his own precious blood.I love thy church, O God!Her walls before thee stand,Dear as the apple of thine eye,And graven on thy hand.If e'er to bless thy sonsMy voice or hands deny,These hands let useful skill forsake,This voice in silence die.For her my tears shall fall,For her my prayers ascend;To her my cares and toils be givenTill toils and cares shall end.Beyond my highest joyI prize her heavenly ways,Her sweet communion, solemn vows,Her hymns of love and praise.Jesus, thou friend divine,Our Saviour and our King,Thy hand from every snare and foeShall great deliverance bring.Sure as thy truth shall last,To Zion shall be givenThe brightest glories earth can yield,And brighter bliss of heaven.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,When fond recollection presents them to view!The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,And every loved spot which my infancy knew!The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it,The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell,The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well—The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure,For often at noon, when returned from the field,I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,And dripping with coolness, it rose from the wellThe old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.And now, far removed from the loved habitation,The tear of regret will intrusively swell,As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the wellThe old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!
To him who in the love of Nature holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language; for his gayer hoursShe has a voice of gladness, and a smileAnd eloquence of beauty, and she glidesInto his darker musings, with a mildAnd healing sympathy, that steals awayTheir sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughtsOf the last bitter hour come like a blightOver thy spirit, and sad imagesOf the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart;—Go forth, under the open sky, and listTo Nature's teachings, while from all around—Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—Comes a still voice:—Yet a few days, and theeThe all-beholding sun shall see no moreIn all his course; nor yet in the cold groundWhere thy pale form was laid with many tears,Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall existThy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolved to earth again,And, lost each human trace, surrendering upThine individual being, shalt thou goTo mix forever with the elements,To be a brother to the insensible rockAnd to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share, and treads upon. The oakShall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.Yet not to thine eternal resting placeShalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie downWith patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,All in one mighty sepulchre. The hillsRock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the valesStretching in pensive quietness between;The venerable woods—rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooksThat make the meadows green; and, poured round all,Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,—Are but the solemn decorations allOf the great tomb of man. The golden sun,The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,Are shining on the sad abodes of deathThrough the still lapse of ages. All that treadThe globe are but a handful to the tribesThat slumber in its bosom.—Take the wingsOf morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,Or lose thyself in the continuous woodsWhere rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,Save his own dashing—yet the dead are there;And millions in those solitudes, since firstThe flight of years began, have laid them downIn their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdrawIn silence from the living, and no friendTake note of thy departure? All that breatheWill share thy destiny. The gay will laughWhen thou art gone, the solemn brood of carePlod on, and each one as before will chaseHis favorite phantom; yet all these shall leaveTheir mirth and their employments, and shall comeAnd make their bed with thee. As the long trainOf ages glides away, the sons of men—The youth in life's green spring, and he who goesIn the full strength of years, matron and maid,The speechless babe, and the grayheaded man—Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,By those who in their turn shall follow them.So live, that when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan, which movesTo that mysterious realm, where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy graveLike one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
When beechen buds begin to swell,And woods the blue-bird's warble know,The yellow violet's modest bellPeeps from the last year's leaves below.Ere russet fields their green resume,Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,To meet thee, when thy faint perfumeAlone is in the virgin air.Of all her train, the hands of SpringFirst plant thee in the watery mould,And I have seen thee blossomingBeside the snow-bank's edges cold.Thy parent sun, who bade thee viewPale skies, and chilling moisture sip,Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,And earthward bent thy gentle eye,Unapt the passing view to meet,When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.Oft, in the sunless April day,Thy early smile has stayed my walk;But midst the gorgeous blooms of May,I passed thee on thy humble stalk.So they, who climb to wealth, forgetThe friends in darker fortunes tried.I copied them—but I regretThat I should ape the ways of pride.And when again the genial hourAwakes the painted tribes of light,I'll not o'erlook the modest flowerThat made the woods of April bright.
Whither, midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler's eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.Seek'st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean-side?There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast—The desert and illimitable air—Lone wandering, but not lost.All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form; yet, in my heartDeeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.He who, from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.
When breezes are soft and skies are fair,I steal an hour from study and care,And hie me away to the woodland scene,Where wanders the stream with waters of green,As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brinkHad given their stain to the waves they drink;And they, whose meadows it murmurs through,Have named the stream from its own fair hue.Yet pure its waters—its shallows are brightWith colored pebbles and sparkles of light,And clear the depths where its eddies play,And dimples deepen and whirl away,And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershootThe swifter current that mines its root,Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill,The quivering glimmer of sun and rillWith a sudden flash on the eye is thrown,Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone.Oh, loveliest there the spring days come,With blossoms, and birds, and wild-bees' hum;The flowers of summer are fairest there,And freshest the breath of the summer air;And sweetest the golden autumn dayIn silence and sunshine glides away.Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide,Beautiful stream! by the village side;But windest away from haunts of men,To quiet valley and shaded glen;And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill,Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still,Lonely—save when, by thy rippling tides,From thicket to thicket the angler glides;Or the simpler comes, with basket and book,For herbs of power on thy banks to look;Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me,To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee.Still—save the chirp of birds that feedOn the river cherry and seedy reed,And thy own wild music gushing outWith mellow murmur of fairy shout,From dawn to the blush of another day,Like traveller singing along his way.That fairy music I never hear,Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear,And mark them winding away from sight,Darkened with shade or flashing with light,While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings,And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings,But I wish that fate had left me freeTo wander these quiet haunts with thee,Till the eating cares of earth should depart,And the peace of the scene pass into my heart;And I envy thy stream, as it glides alongThrough its beautiful banks in a trance of song.Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men,And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen,And mingle among the jostling crowd,Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud—I often come to this quiet place,To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face,And gaze upon thee in silent dream,For in thy lonely and lovely streamAn image of that calm life appearsThat won my heart in my greener years.