Choice Specimens of American Literature, and Literary Reader Part 51

=_345._= THE FAY'S DEPARTURE.

The moon looks down on old Crow-nest, She mellows the shades, on his s.h.a.ggy breast, And seems his huge grey form to throw In a silver cone on the wave below; His sides are broken by spots of shade, By the walnut bough and the cedar made, And through their cl.u.s.tering branches dark Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark-- Like starry twinkles that momently break, Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack.

The stars are on the moving stream, And fling, as its ripples gently flow, A burnished length of wavy beam In an eel-like, spiral line below; The winds are whist, and the owl is still, The bat in the shelvy rock is hid.

And naught is heard on the lonely hill But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill Of the gauze-winged katy-did; And the plaint of the wailing whip-poor-will, Who mourns unseen, and ceaseless sings, Ever a note of wail and woe, Till morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances grow.

The moth-fly, as he shot in air, Crept under the leaf, and hid her there; The katy-did forgot its lay, The prowling gnat fled fast away, The fell mosquito checked his drone And folded his wings till the Fay was gone, And the wily beetle dropped his head, And fell on the ground as if he were dead; They crouched them close in the darksome shade, They quaked all o'er with awe and fear, For they had felt the blue-bent blade, And writhed at the p.r.i.c.k of the elfin spear; Many a time on a summer's night.

When the sky was clear, and the moon was bright, They had been roused from the haunted ground, By the yelp and bay of the fairy hound; They had heard the tiny bugle-horn, They had heard the tw.a.n.g of the maize-silk string, When the vine-twig bows were tightly drawn, And the nettle shaft through air was borne, Feathered with down of the hum-bird's wing.

And now they deemed the courier-ouphe, Some hunter sprite of the elfin ground; And they watched till they saw him mount the roof That canopies the world around; Then glad they left their covert lair, And freaked about in the midnight air.

=_Fitz-Greene Halleck, 1795-1869._= (Manual, p. 515.)

=_346._= MARCO BOZZARIS.

At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power; In dreams, through camp and court he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet ring: Then pressed that monarch's throne--a king; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood On old Platoea's day; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires that conquer'd there, With arm to strike and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they.

An hour pa.s.s'd on--the Turk awoke; That bright dream was his last; He woke to hear his sentries shriek, "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"

He woke--to die, midst flame, and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, And death-shots, falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band: "Strike--till the last arm'd foe expires; Strike--for your altars and your fires; Strike--for the green graves of your sires: G.o.d, and your native land!"

They fought--like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain; They conquer'd--but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw-- His smile when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won: Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!

Come to the mother's, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence, are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come in consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm; Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet-song, and dance, and wine; And thou art terrible: the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear, Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be.

Come, when his task of fame is wrought-- Come, with her laurel-leaf blood-bought-- Come, in her crowning hour--and then Thy sunken eye's unearthly light To him is welcome as the sight Of sky and stars to prison'd men: Thy grasp is welcome as the hand Of brother in a foreign land; Thy summons welcome as the cry That told the Indian isles were nigh, To the world-seeking Genoese; When the land-wind from woods of palm, And orange-groves, and fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee--there is no prouder grave, E'en in her own proud clime.

Site wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hea.r.s.e wave its plume, Like torn branch, from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb: But she remembers thee as one Long loved and for a season gone, For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed: For thee she rings the birth-day bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells, For thine, her evening prayer is said At palace couch, and cottage bed; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears.

And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried joys, And even she who gave thee birth, Will by their pilgrim-circled hearth, Talk of thy doom without a sigh: For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die.

From "f.a.n.n.y."

=_347._= THE BROKEN MERCHANT.

f.a.n.n.y! 'twas with her name my song began; 'Tis proper and polite her name should end it; If in my story of her woes, or plan Or moral can be traced, 'twas not intended; And if I've wronged her, I can only tell her I'm sorry for it--so is my bookseller.

Her father sent to Albany a prayer For office, told how fortune had abused him, And modestly requested to be mayor-- The council very civilly refused him; Because, however much they might desire it, The "public good," it seems, did not require it.

Some evenings since, he took a lonely stroll Along Broadway, scene of past joys and evils; He felt that withering bitterness of soul, Quaintly denominated the "blue devils;"

And thought of Bonaparte and Belisarius, Pompey, and Colonel Burr, and Caius Marius.

And envying the loud playfulness and mirth.

Of those who pa.s.sed him, gay in youth and hope, He took at Jupiter a shilling's worth Of gazing, through the showman's telescope; Sounds as of far-off bells came on his ears, He fancied 'twas the music of the spheres.

He was mistaken, it was no such thing, 'Twas Yankee Doodle, played by Scudder's band; He muttered, as he lingered listening, Something of freedom and our happy land; Then sketched, as to his home he hurried fast, This sentimental song--his saddest and his last.

=_John G.C. Brainard, 1796-1828._= (Manual, p. 523.)

From Lines "To the Connecticut River."

=_348._= THE PAST AND THE PRESENT.

From that lone lake, the sweetest of the chain, That links the mountain to the mighty main, Fresh from the rock and swelling by the tree, Rushing to meet, and dare, and breast the sea-- Fair, n.o.ble, glorious river! in thy wave The sunniest slopes and sweetest pastures lave; The mountain torrent, with its wintry roar, Springs from its home and leaps upon thy sh.o.r.e: The promontories love thee--and for this Turn their rough cheeks, and stay thee for thy kiss.

Dark as the forest leaves that strew the ground, The Indian hunter here his shelter found; Here cut his bow and shaped his arrows true, Here built his wigwam and his bark canoe, Speared the quick salmon leaping up the fall, And slew the deer without the rifle-ball.

What Art can execute, or Taste devise, Decks thy fair course and gladdens in thine eyes-- As broader sweep the bendings of thy stream, To meet the southern sun's more constant beam.

Here cities rise, and sea-washed commerce hails Thy sh.o.r.es and winds with all her flapping sails, From Tropic isles, or from the torrid main-- Where grows the grape, or sprouts the sugar-cane-- Or from the haunts where the striped haddock play, By each cold northern bank and frozen bay.

Here, safe returned from every stormy sea, Waves the striped flag, the mantle of the free-- That star-lit flag, by all the breezes curled Of yon vast deep whose waters grasp the world.

=_Robert C. Sands, 1799-1832._= (Manual, p. 504.)

From "Weehawken."

=_349._= HISTORICAL REMINISCENCES.

Eve o'er our path is stealing fast: Yon quivering splendors are the last The sun will fling, to tremble o'er The waves that kiss the opposing sh.o.r.e; His latest glories fringe the height Behind us, with their golden light.

Yet should the stranger ask what lore Of by-gone days, this winding sh.o.r.e, Yon cliffs, and fir-clad steeps, could tell If vocal made by Fancy's spell, The varying legend might rehea.r.s.e Fit themes for high romantic verse.

O'er yon rough heights and moss-clad sod Oft hath the stalwart warrior trod; Or peered with hunter's gaze, to mark The progress of the glancing bark.

Spoils, strangely won on distant waves.

Have lurked in yon obstructed caves.