THE wild streams leap with headlong sweep
In their curbless course o'er the mountain steep;
All fresh and strong they foam along,
Waking the rocks with their cataract song.
My eye bears a glance like the beam on a lance,
While I watch the waters dash and dance;
I burn with glee, for I love to see
The path of any thing that's free.
The skylark springs with dew on his wings,
And up in the arch of heaven he sings
Trill-la-trill-la, oh, sweeter far
Than the notes that come through a golden bar.
The joyous bay of a hound at play,
The caw of a rook on its homeward way-
Oh! these shall be the music for me,
For I love the voices of the free.
The deer starts by with his antlers high,
Proudly tossing his head to the sky;
The barb runs the plain unbroke by the rein,
With streaming nostrils and flying mane;
The clouds are stirr'd by the eaglet bird,
As the flap of its swooping pinion is heard.
Oh! these shall be the creatures for me,
For my soul was form'd to love the free.
The mariner brave, in his bark on the wave,
May laugh at the walls round a kingly slave;
And the one whose lot is the desert spot
Has no dread of an envious foe in his cot.
The thrall and state at the palace gate
Are what my spirit has learnt to hate:
Oh! the hills shall be a home for me,
For I'd leave a throne for the hut of the free.
I LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,
[sighs;
I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it with
'T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell? a mother sat there,
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
In childhood's hour I linger'd near
The hallow'd seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give,
To fit me to die and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.
I sat and watch'd her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled
And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child.
Years roll'd on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shatter'd, my earth-star fled;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.
'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
"T was there she nursed me, 't was there she died;
And memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.
SWEET is the ocean grave, under the azure wave, Where the rich coral the sea-grot illumes;
Where pearls and amber meet, decking the winding-sheet,
Making the sailor's the brightest of tombs.
Let the proud soldier rest, wrapt in his gory vest,
Where he may happen to fall on his shield,
To sink in the glory-strife was his first hope in life;
Dig him his grave on the red battle-field.
Lay the one great and rich in the strong cloister
Give him his coffin of cedar and gold; [niche,
Let the wild torch-light fall, flouting the velvet pall,
Lock him in marble vault, darksome and cold.
But there's a sunny hill, fondly remember'd still,
Crown'd with fair grass and a bonnie elm tree:
Fresh as the foamy surf, sacred as churchyard turf,
There be the resting-place chosen by me!
Though the long formal prayer ne'er has been utter'd there,
Though the robed priest has not hallow'd the sod; Yet would I dare to ask any in saintly mask "Where is the spot that's unwatch'd by a God!" There the wind loud and strong whistles its winter
Shrill in its wailing and fierce in its sweep; 'Tis music now sweet and dear, loved by my soul and ear;
Let it breathe on where I sleep the last sleep. There in the summer days rest the bright flashing
There spring the wild-flowers-fair as can be :
Daisy and pimpernel, lily and cowslip bell,
These be the grave-flowers chosen by me.
There would I lie alone, mark'd by no sculptured
Few will regret when my spirit departs; And I loathe the vain charnel fame, praising an
Dear, after all, but to two or three hearts.
Who does not turn and laugh at the false epitaph, Painting man spotless and pure as the dove ? If aught of goodly worth grace my career on earth, All that I heed is its record above.
'Tis on that sunny hill, fondly remember'd still, Where my young footsteps climb'd happy and free;
Fresh as the foamy surf, sacred as churchyard turf, There be the sleeping-place chosen by me.
THERE'S A STAR IN THE WEST.
THERE'S a star in the west that shall never go down
Till the records of valour decay;
We must worship its light, though it is not our own,
For liberty burst in its ray.
Shall the name of a Washington ever be heard
By a freeman, and thrill not his breast?
Is there one out of bondage that hails not the word
As the Bethlehem star of the west?
"War, war to the knife! be enthrall'd or ye die,"
Was the echo that woke in his land;
But it was not his voice that promoted the cry,
Nor his madness that kindled the brand.
He raised not his arm, he defied not his foes,
While a leaf of the olive remain'd;
Till goaded with insult, his spirit arose
Like a long-baited lion unchain'd.
He struck with firm courage the blow of the brave,
But sigh'd o'er the carnage that spread:
He indignantly trampled the yoke of the slave,
But wept for the thousands that bled. [strife,
Though he threw back the fetters and headed the
Till man's charter was fairly restored;
[life
Yet he pray'd for the moment when freedom and
Would no longer be press'd by the sword.
Oh! his laurels were pure; and his patriot name
In the page of the future shall dwell,
And be seen in all annals, the foremost in fame,
By the side of a Hofer and Tell.
Revile not my song, for the wise and the good
Among Britons have nobly confess'd
That his was the glory and ours was the blood
Of the deeply-stain'd field of the west.
The world may pour its venom'd blame,
And fiercely spurn the shroud-wrapp'd bier;
Some few may call upon the name,
And sigh to meet a dull, cold ear.
But vain the scorn that would offend,
In vain the lips that would beguile;
The coldest foe, the warmest friend,
Are mock'd by death's unchanging smile.
The only watchword that can tell
Of peace and freedom won by all, Is echo'd by the tolling bell,
And traced upon the sable pall!
THE LOVED ONE WAS NOT THERE.
We gather'd round the festive board,
The crackling fagot blazed,
But few would taste the wine that pour'd,
Or join the song we raised.
For there was now a glass unfill'd
A favour'd place to spare;
All eyes were dull, all hearts were chill'd
The loved one was not there.
No happy laugh was heard to ring,
No form would lead the dance;
A smother'd sorrow seem'd to fling
A gloom in every glance.
The grave has closed upon a brow,
The honest, bright, and fair;
We miss'd our mate, we mourn'd the blow
The loved one was not there.
MOURN NOT THE DEAD.
MOURN not the dead, shed not a tear
Above the moss-stain'd sculptured stone,
And weep for those whose living woes
Still yield the bitter, rending groan.
Grieve not to see the eyelids close
In rest that has not fever'd start;
Wish not to break the deep repose
That curtains round the pulseless heart.
But keep thy pity for the eyes
That pray for night, yet fear to sleep,
Lest wilder, sadder visions rise
Than those o'er which they waking weep.
Mourn not the dead,-'tis they alone
Who are the peaceful and the free;
The purest olive-branch is known
To twine about the cypress tree.
Crime, pride, and passion, hold no more
The willing or the struggling slave;
The throbbing pangs of love are o'er,
And hatred dwells not in the grave.
THE Orb I like is not the one
That dazzles with its lightning gleam, That dares to look upon the sun As though it challenged brighter beam. That orb may sparkle, flash, and roll; Its fire may blaze, its shaft may fly; But not for me: I prize the soul That slumbers in a quiet eye.
There's something in its placid shade That tells of calm unworldly thought; Hope may be crown'd, or joy delay'dNo dimness steals, no ray is caught: Its pensive language seems to say,
"I know that I must close and die;" And death itself, come when it may, Can hardly change the quiet eye.
There's meaning in its steady glance,
Of gentle blame or praising love,
That makes me tremble to advance
A word that meaning might reprove.
The haughty threat, the fiery look,
My spirit proudly can defy;
But never yet could meet and brook
The upbraiding of a quiet eye.
There's firmness in its even light,
That augurs of a breast sincere;
And, oh! take watch how ye excite
That firmness till it yield a tear.
Some bosoms give an easy sigh,
Some drops of grief will freely start;
But that which sears the quiet eye
Hath its deep fountain in the heart.
Ar, scatter me well, 'tis a moist spring day,
Wide and far be the hempseed sown,
And bravely I'll stand on the autumn land
When the rains have dropp'd and the winds have blown.
Man shall carefully gather me up,
His hand shall rule and my form shall change,
Not as a mate for the purple of state,
Nor into aught that is "rich and strange."
But I will come forth all woven and spun,
With my fine threads curl'd in serpent length, And the fire-wrought chain, and the lion's thick
Shall be rivall'd by me in mighty strength.
I have many a place in the busy world,
Of triumph and fear, of sorrow and joy;
I carry the freeman's flag unfurl'd,
I am link'd to childhood's darling toy.
Then scatter me wide, and hackle me well,
For a varied tale can the hempseed tell.
Bravely I swing in the anchor ring
Where the foot of the proud man cometh not, Where the dolphin leaps, and the sea-weed creeps O'er the rifted sand and coral grot.
Down, down below I merrily go
When the huge ship takes her rocking rest; The waters may chafe, but she dwelleth as safe As the young bird in its woodland nest. I wreathe the spars of that same fair ship Where the gallant sea-hearts cling about, Springing aloft with a song on the lip,
Putting their faith in the cordage stout. I am true when the blast sways the giant mast, Straining and stretch'd in a nor'west gale; I abide with the bark, in the day and the dark, Lashing the hammock and reefing the sail. Oh, the billows and I right fairly cope, And the wild tide is stemm'd by the cable rope.
Sons of evil, bad and bold,
Madly ye live and little ye reck,
Till I am noosed in a coiling fold
Ready to hug your felon neck.
The yarn is smooth and the knot is sure,
I will be firm to the task I take;
Thinly they twine the halter line,
Yet when does the halter hitch or break ? My leaves are light and my flowers are bright Fit for an infant hand to clasp;
But what think ye of me, 'neath the gibbet-tree, Dangling high in the hangman's grasp?
Oh, a terrible thing does the hempseed seem Twixt the hollow floor and stout cross-beam?
The people rejoice, the banners are spread;
There is frolic and feasting in cottage and hall; The festival shout is echoing out From trellis'd porch and gothic wall; Merry souls hie to the belfry tower,
Gaily they laugh when I am found,
[shake
And rare music they make, till the quick peals
The ivy that wraps the turret round:
The hempseed lives with the old church bell,
And helpeth the holiday ding-dong-dell.
The sunshine falls on a new-made grave?
The funeral train is long and sad;
The poor man has come to the happiest home,
And easiest pillow he ever had. I shall be there to lower him down Gently into his narrow bed;
I shall be there, the work to share,
To guard his feet, and cradle his head. I may be seen on the hillock green,
Flung aside with the bleaching skull, While the earth is thrown with worm and bone, Till the sexton has done, and the grave is full. Back to the gloomy vault I'm borne,
Leaving coffin and nail to crumble and rust, There I am laid with the mattock and spade, Moisten'd with tears and clogg'd with dust: Oh, the hempseed cometh in doleful shape, With the mourner's cloak and sable crape.
Harvest shall spread with its glittering wheat ;
The barn shall be open'd, the stack shall be piled; Ye shall see the ripe grain shining out from the wain, And the berry-stain'd arms of the gleaner-child. Heap on, heap on, till the wagon-ribs creak,
Let the sheaves go towering to the sky, Up with the shock till the broad wheels rock, Fear not to carry the rich freight high. For I will infold the tottering gold,
I will fetter the rolling load;
Not an ear shall escape my binding hold,
On the furrow'd field or jolting road:
Oh, the hempseed hath a fair place to fill,
With the harvest band on the corn-crown'd hill.
My threads are set in the heaving net,
Out with the fisher-boy far at sea,
While he whistles a tune to the lonely moon,
And trusts for his morrow's bread to me.
Toiling away through the dry summer-day,
Round and round I steadily twist,
And bring from the cell of the deep old well
What is rarely prized but sorely miss'd.
In the whirling swing-in the peg-top string,
There am I, a worshipp'd slave,
On ocean and earth I'm a goodly thing,
I serve from the play-ground to the grave.
I have many a place in the busy world,
Of triumph and fear, of sorrow and joy;
I carry the freeman's flag unfurl'd,
And am link'd to childhood's darling toy: Then scatter me wide, and hackle me well, And a varied tale shall the hempseed tell.
LAND of the west! though passing brief
The record of thine age,
Thou hast a name that darkens all
On history's wide page!
Let all the blasts of fame ring out-
Thine shall be loudest far:
Let others boast their satellites-
Thou hast the planet star.
Thou hast a name whose characters
Of light shall ne'er depart;
'Tis stamp'd upon the dullest brain,
And warms the coldest heart;
A war-cry fit for any land
Where freedom's to be won.
Land of the west! it stands alone
It is thy Washington!
Rome had its Cæsar, great and brave;
But stain was on his wreath:
He lived the heartless conqueror,
And died the tyrant's death.
France had its eagle; but his wings,
Though lofty they might soar,
Were spread in false ambition's flight,
And dipp'd in murder's gore.
Those hero-gods, whose mighty sway
Would fain have chain'd the waves
Who flesh'd their blades with tiger zeal,
To make a world of slaves-
Who, though their kindred barr'd the path,
Still fiercely waded on-
Oh, where shall be their "glory" by
The side of Washington?
He fought, but not with love of strife,
He struck but to defend;
And ere he turn'd a people's foe,
He sought to be a friend.
He strove to keep his country's right,
By reason's gentle word,
And sigh'd when fell injustice threw The challenge-sword to sword.
He stood the firm, the calm, the wise The patriot and sage;
He show'd no deep, avenging hate
No burst of despot rage.
He stood for liberty and truth,
And dauntlessly led on,
Till shouts of victory gave forth,
The name of Washington.
No car of triumph bore him through,
A city fill'd with grief;
No groaning captives at the wheels,
Proclaim'd him victor chief;
He broke the gyves of slavery
With strong and high disdain,
And cast no sceptre from the links
When he had crush'd the chain.
He saved his land, but did not lay
His soldier trappings down
To change them for the regal vest,
And don a kingly crown.
Fame was too earnest in her joy-
Too proud of such a son-
To let a robe and title mask
A noble Washington.
England, my heart is truly thine
My loved, my native earth!-
The land that holds a mother's grave,
And gave that mother birth!
Oh, keenly sad would be the fate
That thrust me from thy shore,
And faltering my breath, that sigh'd,
"Farewell for evermore!"
But did I meet such adverse lot,
I would not seek to dwell
Where olden heroes wrought the deeds
For Homer's song to tell.
Away, thou gallant ship! I'd cry,
And bear me swiftly on:
But bear me from my own fair land,
To that of Washington!
Our native song! our native song!
Oh! where is he who loves it not?
The spell it holds is deep and strong,
Where'er we go, whate'er our lot.
Let other music greet our ear
With thrilling fire or dulcet tone;
We speak to praise, we pause to hear,
But yet-oh! yet-'tis not our own!
The anthem chant, the ballad wild,
The notes that we remember longThe theme we sung with lisping tongue"Tis this we love our native song!
The one who bears the felon's brand,
With moody brow and darken'd name,
Thrust meanly from his father-land,
To languish out a life of shame;
Oh! let him hear some simple strain-
Some lay his mother taught her boy-
He'll feel the charm, and dream again
Of home, of innocence, and joy!
The sigh will burst, the drops will start,
And all of virtue, buried long-
The best, the purest in his heart,
Is waken'd by his native song.
Self-exiled from our place of birth,
To climes more fragrant, bright, and gay
The memory of our own fair earth
May chance awhile to fade away:
But should some minstrel echo fall,
Of chords that breathe old England's fame,
Our souls will burn, our spirits yearn,
True to the land we love and claim.
The high! the low! in weal or wo,
Be sure there's something coldly wrong
About the heart that does not glow
To hear its own, its native song.
1843 he published a volume of poems entitled
MR. SIMMONS has been several years a contributor to Blackwood's Magazine, and in | Legends and Lyrics.
LOST Lord of Song! who grandly gave
Thy matchless timbrel for the spear-
And, by old Hellas' hallow'd wave
Died at the feet of Freedom-hear!
Hear-from thy lone and lowly tomb,
Where mid thy own "inviolate Isle,"
Beneath no minster's marble gloom,
No banner's golden smile,
Far from the swarming city's crowd,
Thy glory round thee for a shroud,
Thou sleepest, -the pious rustic's tread
The only echo o'er thy bed,
Save, few and faint, when o'er the foam
The pilgrims of thy genius come,
From distant earth, with tears of praise,
The homage of their hearts to raise,
And curse the country's very name,
Unworthy of thy sacred dust,
That draws such lustre from thy fame,
That heaps such outrage on thy bust!
Wake from the dead and lift thy brow
With the same scornful beauty now,
As when beneath thy shafts of pride
Envenom'd cant-the Python-died!
Prophet no less than bard, behold
Matured the eventful moment, told
In those divine predictive words
Pour'd to the lyre's transcendent chords:-
"If e'er his awful ashes can grow cold-
But no, theirembers soon shall burst their mould
_ France shall feel the want
Of this last consolation, though but scant.
Her honour, fame, and faith demand his bones,
To pile above a pyramid of thrones!"
If, then, from thy neglected bier,
One humblest follower thou canst hear,
O mighty Master! rise and flee,
Swift as some meteor bold and bright,
With me thy cloud, attending thee,
Across the dusky tracts of night,
To where the sunset's latest radiance shone
O'er Afric's sea interminably lone.
Below that broad unbroken sea
Long since the sultry sun has dropp'd,
And now in dread solemnity
-As though its course Creation stopp'd
One wondrous hour, to watch the birth
Of deeds portentous unto earth-
The moonless midnight far and wide,
Solidly black, flings over all
The giant waste of waveless tide
Her melancholy pall,
Whose folds in thickest gloom unfurl'd,
Each ray of heaven's high face debar,
Save, on the margin of the world
Where leans yon solitary star,
Large, radiant, restless, tinting with far smile
The jagged cliffs of a gray barren Isle.
Hark! o'er the waves distinctly swell
Twelve slow vibrations of a bell!
And out upon the silent ear
At once ring bold and sharply clear,
With shock more startling than if thunder
Had split the slumbering earth asunder,
The iron sounds of crow and bar;
Ye scarce may know from whence they come,
Whether from island or from star,
Both lie so hush'd and dumb!
On, swift and deep, those echoes sweep,
Shaking long-buried kings from sleep-
Up, up! ye sceptred Jailers-ho!
Your granite heaped his head in vain;
The very grave gives back your foe-
Dead Cæsar wakes again!
The nations, with a voice as dread
As that which once in Bethany
Burst to the regions of the dead,
And set the loved-one free,
Have cried, "Come forth!" and lo! again,
To smite the hearts and eyes of men
With the old awe he once instill'd
By many an unforgotten field,
Napoleon's look shall startle day-
That look that, where its anger fell,
Scorch'd empires from the earth away
As with the blasts of hell!
Up-from the dust, ye sleepers, ho!
By the blue Danube's stately waveFrom Berlin's towers-from Moscow's snow,
And Windsor's gorgeous grave!
Come-summon'd by the omnific power,
The spirit of this thrilling hour-
And, stooping from yon craggy height,
Girt by each perish'd satellite,
Each cunning tool of kingly terror
Who served your reigns of fraud and error,
Behold, where with relentless lock
Ye chain'd Prometheus to his rock,
And, when his tortured bosom ceased
Your vulture's savage beak to feast,
Where fathom-deep ye dug his cell,
And built and barr'd his coffin down,
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