TO THE MOST INDULGENT OF READERS, THE KINDEST OF CRITICS, MY BELOVED MOTHER, ALL THAT IS LEAST UNWORTHY OF HER IN THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED BY HER AFFECTIONATE SON. DIG HE piping of our slender, peaceful reeds bray; Song is thin air; our hearts' exulting play Beats time but to the tread of marching deeds, Following the mighty van that Freedom leads, Her glorious standard flaming to the day! The crimsoned pavement where a hero bleeds Breathes nobler lessons than the poet's lay. Strong arms, broad breasts, brave hearts, are better worth Than strains that sing the ravished echoes dumb. Hark! 't is the loud reverberating drum Rolls o'er the prairied West, the rock-bound North: The myriad-handed Future stretches forth Its shadowy palms. Behold, we come, we come! Turn o'er these idle leaves. Such toys as these It matters little if they pall or please, Glare from the mustering clouds whose blackness seems Too swollen to hold its lightning from the trees. MAY 1, 1861. AGNES.14 PART FIRST. THE KNIGHT. HE tale I tell is gospel true, As all the bookmen know, And pilgrims who have strayed to view The old, old story, — fair, and young, Ah! maidens err and matrons warn Beneath the coldest sky; Love lurks amid the tasselled corn But who would dream our sober sires And warmed their hearths with lawless fires |