Selections from American poetry Part 2

Not so the ancients of these lands;-- The Indian, when from life released, Again is seated with his friends, And shares again the joyous feast.

His imaged birds, and painted bowl, And venison, for a journey dressed, Bespeak the nature of the soul, Activity, that wants no rest.

His bow for action ready bent, And arrows, with a head of stone, Can only mean that life is spent, And not the old ideas gone.

Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way, No fraud upon the dead commit,-- Observe the swelling turf, and say, They do not die, but here they sit.

Here still a lofty rock remains, On which the curious eye may trace (Now wasted half by wearing rains) The fancies of a ruder race.

Here still an aged elm aspires, Beneath whose far projecting shade (And which the shepherd still admires) children of the forest played.

There oft a restless Indian queen (Pale Shebah with her braided hair), And many a barbarous form is seen To chide the man that lingers there.

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews, In habit for the chase arrayed, The hunter still the deer pursues, The hunter and the deer--a shade!

And long shall timorous Fancy see The painted chief, and pointed spear, And Reason's self shall bow the knee To shadows and delusions here.

EUTAW SPRINGS

At Eutaw Springs the valiant died; Their limbs with dust are covered o'er; Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide; How many heroes are no more!

If in this wreck of ruin, they Can yet be thought to claim a tear, O smite thy gentle breast, and say The friends of freedom slumber here!

Thou, who shalt trace this b.l.o.o.d.y plain, If goodness rules thy generous breast, Sigh for the wasted rural reign; Sigh for the shepherds sunk to rest!

Stranger, their humble groves adorn; You too may fall, and ask a tear: 'Tis not the beauty of the morn That proves the evening shall be clear.

They saw their injured country's woe, The flaming town, the wasted field; Then rushed to meet the insulting foe; They took the spear--but left the shield.

Led by thy conquering standards, Greene, The Britons they compelled to fly: None distant viewed the fatal plain, None grieved in such a cause to die--

But, like the Parthian, famed of old, Who, flying, still their arrows threw, These routed Britons, full as bold, Retreated, and retreating slew.

Now rest in peace, our patriot band; Though far from nature's limits thrown, We trust they find a happier land, A bright Phoebus of their own.

FRANCIS HOPKINSON

THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS

Gallants attend and hear a friend Trill forth harmonious ditty, Strange things I'll tell which late befell In Philadelphia city.

'Twas early day, as poets say, Just when the sun was rising, A soldier stood on a log of wood, And saw a thing surprising.

As in amaze he stood to gaze, The truth can't be denied, sir, He spied a score of kegs or more Come floating down the tide, sir.

A sailor too in jerkin blue, This strange appearance viewing, First d.a.m.ned his eyes, in great surprise, Then said, "Some mischief's brewing.

"These kegs, I'm told, the rebels hold, Packed up like pickled herring; And they're come down to attack the town, In this new way of ferrying."

The soldier flew, the sailor too, And scared almost to death, sir, Wore out their shoes, to spread the news, And ran till out of breath, sir.

Now up and down throughout the town, Most frantic scenes were acted; And some ran here, and others there, Like men almost distracted.

Some fire cried, which some denied, But said the earth had quaked; And girls and boys, with hideous noise, Ran through the streets half naked.

Sir William he, snug as a flea, Lay all this time a snoring, Nor dreamed of harm as he lay warm, In bed with Mrs. Loring.

Now in a fright, he starts upright, Awaked by such a clatter; He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries, "For G.o.d's sake, what's the matter?"

At his bedside he then espied, Sir Erskine at command, sir, Upon one foot he had one boot, And th' other in his hand, sir.

"Arise, arise," Sir Erskine cries, "The rebels--more's the pity, Without a boat are all afloat, And ranged before the city.

"The motley crew, in vessels new, With Satan for their guide, sir, Packed up in bags, or wooden kegs, Come driving down the tide, sir.

"Therefore prepare for b.l.o.o.d.y war; These kegs must all be routed, Or surely we despised shall be, And British courage doubted."

The royal band now ready stand All ranged in dread array, sir, With stomach' stout to see it out, And make a b.l.o.o.d.y day, sir.

The cannons roar from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e.

The small arms make a rattle; Since wars began I'm sure no man E'er saw so strange a battle.

The rebel dales, the rebel vales, With rebel trees surrounded, The distant woods, the hills and floods, With rebel echoes sounded.

The fish below swam to and fro, Attacked from every quarter; Why sure, thought they, the devil's to pay, 'Mongst folks above the water.

The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly made, Of rebel staves and hoops, sir, Could not oppose their powerful foes, The conquering British troops, sir.

From morn to night these men of might Displayed amazing courage; And when the sun was fairly down, Retired to sup their porridge.

A hundred men with each a pen, Or more upon my word, sir, It is most true would be too few, Their valor to record, sir.

Such feats did they perform that day, Against these wicked kegs, sir, That years to come: if they get home, They'll make their boasts and brags, sir.

JOSEPH HOPKINSON