May sweetest dews and warmest ray
Lie on thine early grave!

When damps beneath, and storms above,
Have bowed these fragile towers,
Still o'er the graves yon locust-grove

Shall swing its Orient flowers;

-

And I would ask no mouldering bust,
If e'er this humble line,

Which breathed a sigh o'er other's dust,
Might call a tear on mine.

II.

BUT times were changed; the torch of terror came, To light the summits with the beacon's flame; The streams ran crimson, the tall mountain pines Rose a new forest o'er embattled lines; The bloodless sickle lent the warrior's steel, The harvest bowed beneath his chariot wheel; Where late the wood-dove sheltered her repose The raven waited for the conflict's close; The cuirassed sentry walked his sleepless round Where Daphne smiled or Amaryllis frowned; Where timid minstrels sung their blushing charms, Some wild Tyrtæus called aloud, “To arms!"

When Glory wakes, when fiery spirits leap, Roused by her accents from their tranquil sleep, The ray that flashes from the soldier's crest Lights, as it glances, in the poet's breast;

Not in pale dreamers, whose fantastic lay
Toys with smooth trifles like a child at play,
But men, who act the passions they inspire,
Who wave the sabre as they sweep the lyre!

Ye mild enthusiasts, whose pacific frowns Are lost like dew-drops caught in burning towns, Pluck as ye will the radiant plumes of fame, Break Cæsar's bust to make yourselves a name; But, if your country bares the avenger's blade For wrongs unpunished, or for debts unpaid, When the roused nation bids her armies form, And screams her eagle through the gathering storm, When from your ports the bannered frigate rides, Her black bows scowling to the crested tides, Your hour has past; in vain your feeble cry, As the babe's wailings to the thundering sky!

Scourge of mankind! with all the dread array That wraps in wrath thy desolating way, As the wild tempest wakes the slumbering sea, Thou only teachest all that man can be. Alike thy tocsin has the power to charm The toil-knit sinews of the rustic's arm, Or swell the pulses in the poet's veins, And bid the nations tremble at his strains.

The city slept beneath the moonbeam's glance, Her white walls gleaming through the vines of France,

And all was hushed, save where the footsteps fell,
On some high tower, of midnight sentinel.
But one still watched; no self-encircled woes
Chased from his lids the angel of repose;

He watched, he wept, for thoughts of bitter years
Bowed his dark lashes, wet with burning tears:
His country's sufferings and her children's shame
Streamed o'er his memory like a forest's flame,
Each treasured insult, each remembered wrong,
Rolled through his heart and kindled into song:
His taper faded; and the morning gales
Swept through the world the war-song of Marseilles !*

Now, while around the smiles of Peace expand, And Plenty's wreaths festoon the laughing land; While France ships outward her reluctant ore, And half our navy basks upon the shore; From ruder themes our meek-eyed Muses turn To crown with roses their enamelled urn.

If e'er again return those awful days

Whose clouds were crimsoned with the beacon's

blaze,

Whose grass was trampled by the soldier's heel,
Whose tides were reddened round the rushing keel,
God grant some lyre may wake a nobler strain
To rend the silence of our tented plain!
When Gallia's flag its triple fold displays,
Her marshalled legions peal the Marseillaise;
When round the German close the war-clouds dim,
Far through their shadows floats his battle-hymn;
When, crowned with joy, the camps of England ring,
A thousand voices shout, "God save the King!"
When victory follows with our eagle's glance,
Our nation's anthem is a country dance! 5

Some prouder muse, when comes the hour at last, May shake our hill-sides with her bugle-blast;

Not ours the task; but since the lyric dress
Relieves the statelier with its sprightliness,
Hear an old song, which some, perchance, have

seen

In stale gazette, or cobwebbed magazine.

There was an hour when patriots dared profane
The mast that Britain strove to bow in vain; 6
And one, who listened to the tale of shame,
Whose heart still answered to that sacred name,
Whose eye still followed o'er his country's tides
Thy glorious flag, our brave Old Ironsides!
From yon lone attic, on a summer's morn,
Thus mocked the spoilers with his school-boy scorn.

AY, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;

Beneath it rung the battle shout,

And burst the cannon's roar ;

The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor's tread,

Or know the conquered knee;
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

O better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,

And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!

III.

WHEN florid Peace resumed her golden reign, And arts revived, and valleys bloomed again; While War still panted on his broken blade, Once more the Muse her heavenly wing essayed. Rude was the song; some ballad, stern and wild, Lulled the light slumbers of the soldier's child; Or young romancer, with his threatening glance And fearful fables of his bloodless lance, Scared the soft fancy of the clinging girls, Whose snowy fingers smoothed his raven curls. But when long years the stately form had bent, And faithless memory her illusions lent, So vast the outlines of Tradition grew, That History wondered at the shapes she drew, And veiled at length their too ambitious hues Beneath the pinions of the Epic Muse.

Far swept her wing; for stormier days had brought

With darker passions deeper tides of thought.