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I am sick to the soul of that quiet sea, Which hides ten thousand graves.
A CRY TO ARMS [2]
Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side!
Ho! dwellers in the vales!
Ho! ye who by the chafing tide Have roughened in the gales!
Leave barn and byre,[3] leave kin and cot, Lay by the bloodless spade; Let desk, and case, and counter rot, And burn your books of trade.
The despot roves your fairest lands; And till he flies or fears, Your fields must grow but armed bands, Your sheaves be sheaves of spears!
Give up to mildew and to rust The useless tools of gain; And feed your country's sacred dust With floods of crimson rain!
Come, with the weapons at your call-- With musket, pike, or knife; He wields the deadliest blade of all Who lightest holds his life.
The arm that drives its unbought blows With all a patriot's scorn, Might brain a tyrant with a rose, Or stab him with a thorn.
Does any falter? let him turn To some brave maiden's eyes, And catch the holy fires that burn In those sublunar skies.
Oh! could you like your women feel, And in their spirit march, A day might see your lines of steel Beneath the victor's arch.
What hope, O G.o.d! would not grow warm When thoughts like these give cheer?
The Lily calmly braves the storm, And shall the Palm Tree fear?
No! rather let its branches court The rack [4] that sweeps the plain; And from the Lily's regal port Learn how to breast the strain!
Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side!
Ho! dwellers in the vales!
Ho! ye who by the roaring tide Have roughened in the gales!
Come! flocking gayly to the fight, From forest, hill, and lake; We battle for our Country's right, And for the Lily's sake!
ODE [5]
I
Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause; Though yet no marble column craves The pilgrim here to pause.
II
In seeds of laurel in the earth The blossom of your fame is blown, And somewhere, waiting for its birth, The shaft is in the stone![6]
III
Meanwhile, behalf [7] the tardy years Which keep in trust your storied tombs, Behold! your sisters bring their tears, And these memorial blooms.
IV
Small tributes! but your shades will smile More proudly on these wreaths to-day, Than when some cannon-molded pile [8]
Shall overlook this bay.
V
Stoop, angels, hither from the skies!
There is no holier spot of ground Than where defeated valor lies, By mourning beauty crowned.
FLOWER-LIFE [9]
I think that, next to your sweet eyes, And pleasant books, and starry skies, I love the world of flowers; Less for their beauty of a day, Than for the tender things they say, And for a creed I've held alway, That they are sentient powers.[10]
It may be matter for a smile-- And I laugh secretly the while I speak the fancy out-- But that they love, and that they woo, And that they often marry too, And do as noisier creatures do, I've not the faintest doubt.
And so, I cannot deem it right To take them from the glad sunlight, As I have sometimes dared; Though not without an anxious sigh Lest this should break some gentle tie, Some covenant of friends.h.i.+p, I Had better far have spared.
And when, in wild or thoughtless hours, My hand hath crushed the tiniest flowers, I ne'er could shut from sight The corpses of the tender things, With other drear imaginings, And little angel-flowers with wings Would haunt me through the night.
Oh! say you, friend, the creed is fraught With sad, and even with painful thought, Nor could you bear to know That such capacities belong To creatures helpless against wrong, At once too weak to fly the strong Or front the feeblest foe?
So be it always, then, with you; So be it--whether false or true-- I press my faith on none; If other fancies please you more, The flowers shall blossom as before, Dear as the Sibyl-leaves [11] of yore, But senseless every one.
Yet, though I give you no reply, It were not hard to justify My creed to partial ears; But, conscious of the cruel part, My rhymes would flow with faltering art, I could not plead against your heart, Nor reason with your tears.
SONNET [12]
Poet! if on a lasting fame be bent Thy unperturbing hopes, thou wilt not roam Too far from thine own happy heart and home; Cling to the lowly earth and be content!
So shall thy name be dear to many a heart; So shall the n.o.blest truths by thee be taught; The flower and fruit of wholesome human thought Bless the sweet labors of thy gentle art.
The brightest stars are nearest to the earth, And we may track the mighty sun above, Even by the shadow of a slender flower.
Always, O bard, humility is power!
And thou mayest draw from matters of the hearth Truths wide as nations, and as deep as love.
SONNET [13]
Most men know love but as a part of life;[14]
They hide it in some corner of the breast, Even from themselves; and only when they rest In the brief pauses of that daily strife,
Wherewith the world might else be not so rife, They draw it forth (as one draws forth a toy To soothe some ardent, kiss-exacting boy) And hold it up to sister, child, or wife.
Ah me! why may not love and life be one?[15]
Why walk we thus alone, when by our side, Love, like a visible G.o.d, might be our guide?
How would the marts grow n.o.ble! and the street, Worn like a dungeon floor by weary feet, Seem then a golden court-way of the Sun!
