Puslapio vaizdai
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Who, wedded to vengeance, a dread oath has sworn,
On the arms of his comrades, a corse to be borne ;
Or the deep debt of vengeance, in tenfold, to deal
On the merciless fiends, with his rifle and steel,
For the soul-harrowing scathe of the victim so dear
To the heart of the hero, the brave volunteer.

THE HEROES OF THE WEST.

I.

How sweet is the song of the festal rite,

When the bosom with rapture swells high; When the heart, at the soft touch of pleasure, beats light, And bright is the beam of the eye.

In the dirge, that is poured o'er affection's bier,

How holy an interest dwells,

When the frequent drop, of the frequent tear,

The heart-rending anguish tells;

But sweeter the song that the minstrel should raise

To the patriot victor's fame,

And livelier the tones of the heart-gendered praise,
That should wake from the harp at his name:
But holier the dirge that the minstrel should pour
O'er the fallen hero's grave,

Whose arm wields the sword for his country no more,
Who has died the death of the brave.

II.

There lives in the bosom a feeling sublime,

Of all, 'tis the strongest tie;
Unvarying through every change of time,
And only with life does it die.

'Tis the love that is borne for that lovely land,
That smiled on the hour of our birth;

'Tis the love, that is planted by nature's hand,
For our sacred native earth.

'Twas this that the patriot victor inspired,
Was strong in the strength of his arm,
With the holiest zeal his brave bosom fired,
And to danger and death gave a charm.
"Twas this that the dying hero blest,

And hallowed the hour when he fell,

That throbbed in the final throb of his breast,
And heaved in his bosom's last swell:

III.

When a thousand swords, in a thousand hands,
To the sunbeams of heaven shone bright;
When the glowing hearts of Columbia's bands,
Were firm in Columbia's right:

When the blood of the West, in the battle was poured,
In defence of the rights of the West;

When the blood of the East stained the point of the sword, At the Eastern king's behest:

"Till the angel form of returning peace,

O'er the plain and the mountain smiled

Bade the rude blast of war from its ravage to cease,
And the sweet gale of plenty breathe mild.
She smiled-And the nation's mighty woes
Ceased to stream from the nation's eyes;
She smiled-And a fabric of wisdom arose,
And exalted its fame to the skies.

IV.

Then firm be its base, as the giant rock
'Midst the ocean waves alone,

That the beating rain and the tempest shock,
For numberless years has borne.

And blasted the parricide arm, that shall plan
That glorious structure's fall;

But still may it sanction the rights of man,

And liberty guardian to all.

Then sweet be the song that the minstrel should raise,

To the patriot victor's fame,

And lively the tones of the heart-gendered praise,
That should wake from the harp at his name.
Then holy the dirge that the minstrel should pour,
O'er the fallen hero's grave,

Whose hand wields the sword for his country no more,
Who has died the death of the brave.

TURN NOT TO THE EAST.

Can the heart, which first glow'd in a far foreign seat, For a different land feel its warm pulses beat?

Can the eye, op'd not here, drop the heart-gender'd tear On the blood that was spilt for the blessings we bear? /

Turn not to the East with the eye of desire,
Turn not to the East like the sect'ry of fire;
For the wind of the East in its poison'd gale brings
The fell breath of despots, and curses of kings.

See the star of the West in its mild glories rise,
See the star of the West tread its path in the skies:
How sweet is the sight, while its soft radiance beams ·
On my native land's hills, and my native land's streams.

That star, when the proud boasting sons of the East Have danc'd through their day, and have finished their feast

That star then shall shine over millions more blest,
In the realms doom'd to rise in the wilds of the West.

Then look to the Eastern horizon's blue bound,
As if past its precincts no mortal is found;
Then look to the Eastern horizon's red light,
As if past its rays brood oblivion and night.

Can the heart, which first glow'd in a far foreign seat,
For a different land feel its warm pulses beat?
Can the eye, op'd not here, drop the heart-gender'd tear,
On the blood that was spilt for the blessings we bear?

TO ****

I.

LADY, that form so slight and fair
Was, surely, never framed to bear
The season's change, the hand of pain,
And fell disease's racking train,

That must, from year to year, attend
Life's course, till life itself shall end.

II.

That heart, so pure, so soft, so good,
That scarce has yet a pang withstood,
Was, surely, never meant to bear
Grief, sorrow, woe, deceit, despair,
And all the mental ills, that rend
The human heart, till life shall end.

III.

Some happy island far removed,

Whose groves of bliss an angel loved,

I

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