The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics Part 7

The glory from his gray hairs gone Forevermore!

Revile him not,--the Tempter hath A snare for all; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Befit his fall!

Oh, dumb be pa.s.sion's stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night.

Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven!

Let not the land once proud of him Insult him now, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, Dishonored brow.

But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make.

Of all we loved and honored, naught Save power remains,-- A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains.

All else is gone; from those great eyes The soul has fled: When faith is lost, when honor dies.

The man is dead!

Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame!

J.G. WHITTIER.

Sir Humphrey Gilbert.

Southward with fleet of ice Sailed the corsair Death; Wild and fast blew the blast, And the east-wind was his breath.

His lordly s.h.i.+ps of ice Glisten in the sun; On each side, like pennons wide, Flas.h.i.+ng crystal streamlets run.

His sails of white sea-mist Dripped with silver rain; But where he pa.s.sed there were cast Leaden shadows o'er the main.

Eastward from Campobello Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed; Three days or more seaward he bore, Then, alas! the land-wind failed.

Alas! the land-wind failed, And ice-cold grew the night; And nevermore, on sea or sh.o.r.e, Should Sir Humphrey see the light.

He sat upon the deck, The Book was in his hand; "Do not fear! Heaven is as near,"

He said, "by water as by land!"

In the first watch of the night, Without a signal's sound, Out of the sea, mysteriously, The fleet of Death rose all around.

The moon and the evening star Were hanging in the shrouds; Every mast, as it pa.s.sed, Seemed to rake the pa.s.sing clouds.

They grappled with their prize, At midnight black and cold!

As of a rock was the shock; Heavily the ground-swell rolled.

Southward through day and dark, They drift in close embrace, With mist and rain, o'er the open main; Yet there seems no change of place.

Southward, forever southward, They drift through dark and day; And like a dream, in the Gulf Stream Sinking, vanish all away.

H.W. LONGFELLOW.

Concord Hymn.

Sung at the completion of the Battle Monument, April 19, 1836.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone, That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee.

R.W. EMERSON.

To America.

What, cringe to Europe! Band it all in one, Stilt its decrepit strength, renew its age, Wipe out its debts, contract a loan to wage Its venal battles,--and, by yon bright sun, Our G.o.d is false, and liberty undone, If slaves have power to win your heritage!

Look on your country, G.o.d's appointed stage, Where man's vast mind its boundless course shall run: For that it was your stormy coast He spread-- A fear in winter; girded you about With granite hills, and made you strong and dread.

Let him who fears before the foemen shout, Or gives an inch before a vein has bled, Turn on himself, and let the traitor out!

G.H. BOKER.

Old Ironsides.

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 sh.o.r.e shall pluck The eagle of the sea!

Oh, 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 G.o.d of storms, The lightning, and the gale!

O.W. HOLMES.