still her gray rocks tower above the sea That crouches at their feet, a conquered wave; 'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree, Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave; Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold and free, And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave; And where none kneel, save when to heaven they pray, Nor even then, unless in their own way. Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong, A "fierce democracie," where all are true (If red, they might to Draco's code belong ;) A vestal state, which power could not subdue, Nor promise win-like her own eagle's nest, Sacred-the San Marino of the West. A justice of the peace, for the time being, In price or creed, dismiss him without fear; They have a natural talent for foreseeing And knowing all things; and should Park appear From his long tour in Africa, to show The Niger's source, they'd meet him with-"We know.” They love their land, because it is their own, And scorn to give aught other reason why; Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, And think it kindness to his majesty; A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none. Such are they nurtured, such they live and die: All-but a few apostates, who are meddling With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling; Or wandering through the southern countries, teaching The A B C from Webster's spelling-book; Gallant and godly, making love and preaching, And gaining by what they call "hook and crook," And what the moralists call overreaching, A decent living. The Virginians look Upon them with as favourable eyes As Gabriel on the devil in Paradise. But these are but their outcasts. View them near At home, where all their worth and pride is placed; And there their hospitable fires burn clear, And there the lowliest farmhouse hearth is graced With manly hearts, in piety sincere, Faithful in love, in honour stern and chaste, In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave. And minds have there been nurtured, whose control Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul, Whose leaves contain their country's history, Of the Green-Mountaineer-the Stark of Bennington. When on that field his band the Hessians fought, For four pounds eight and sevenpence per man, Are we worth more? Let's prove it now we can; For we must beat them, boys, ere set of sun, OR MARY STARK'S A WIDOW!" It was done. Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring, Of Florence and the Arno; yet the wing Of life's best angel, Health, is on her gales Through sun and snow; and in the autumn time Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime. Her clear, warm heaven at noon-the mist that shrouds The glorious splendour of her sunset clouds, Where'er his web of song her poet weaves; And when you dream of woman, and her love; Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air To the green land I sing, then wake, you'll find them there. ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE, OF NEW YORK, SEPT., 1820. "The good die first, And they, whose hearts are dry as summer dust, GREEN be the turf above thee, Tears fell, when thou wert dying, ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. When hearts, whose truth was proven, Like thine, are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven And I, who woke each morrow Whose weal and woe were thine: It should be mine to braid it While memory bids me weep thee, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee. |