The American Union Speaker Part 38

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encounter'd in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget How gush'd the life-blood of her brave,-- Gush'd, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still; Alone the chirp of flitting birds And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry: Oh, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weapon'd throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown--yet faint thou not,

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; The eternal years of G.o.d are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When they who help'd thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal'd The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

W. C. Bryant.

CCXI.

HALLOWED GROUND.

What's hallowed ground! Has earth a clod Its Maker meant not should be trod By man, the image of his G.o.d, Erect and free, Unscourged by Superst.i.tion's rod To bow the knee?

That's hallowed ground--where mourned and missed, The lips repose our love has kissed;-- But where's their memory's mansion? Is 't Yon churchyard's bowers?

No; in ourselves their souls exist, A part of ours.

What hallows ground where heroes sleep?

'T is not the sculptured piles you heap!

In dews that heavens far distant weep, Their turf may bloom; Or genii twine beneath the deep Their coral tomb.

But strew his ashes to the wind Whose sword or voice has served mankind--And is he dead, whose glorious mind Lifts thine on high?

To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die.

Is 't death to fall for freedom's right?

He's dead alone that lacks her light!

And murder sullies in Heaven's sight The sword he draws:-- What can alone enn.o.ble fight?

A n.o.ble cause!

Give that! and welcome war to brace Her drums! and rend heaven's reeking s.p.a.ce!

The colors painted face to face, The charging cheer, Though Death's pale horse led on the chase, Shall still be dear!

And place our trophies where men kneel To Heaven!--but Heaven rebukes my zeal!

The cause of truth and human weal, O G.o.d above!

Transfer it from the sword's appeal To peace and love!

Peace, love! the cherubim, that join Their spread wings o'er devotion's shrine;-- Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine Where they are not;-- The heart alone can make divine Religion's spot.

To incantations dost thou trust, And pompous rites in domes august?

See mouldering stones and metals' rust Belie the vaunt, That man can bless one pile of dust With chime or chant.

Fair stars! are not your beings pure?

Can sin, can death your worlds obscure?

Else why so swell the thoughts at your Aspect above?

Ye must be Heaven's that make us sure Of heavenly love!

And in your harmony sublime I read the doom of distant time; That man's regenerate soul from crime Shall yet be drawn, And reason on his mortal clime Immortal dawn.

What's hallowed ground? 'T is what gives birth To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!-- Peace! independence! truth! go forth Earth's compa.s.sed round; And your high-priesthood shall make earth All hallowed ground.

T. Campbell.

CCXII.

THE EXILE OF ERIN.

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,-- The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed, when, at twilight, repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill: But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion; For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fervor of youth's warm emotion, He sung the bold anthem of "Erin go bragh!"

"Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger-- "The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger: A home and a country remain not to me!

Never again in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with wild woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of 'Erin go bragh!'

"Erin! my country! though sad and forsaken In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten sh.o.r.e!

But, alas! in a far, foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!

O cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me?

Never again shall my brothers embrace me!

They died to defend me!--or live to deplore!

"Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?

Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?

Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?

Ah! my sad soul, long abandoned by pleasure!

Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?

Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall!

"Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw;-- Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!

Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh!

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean!

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, 'Erin mavournin--Erin go bragh!'"

T. Campbell.