All trace will vanish from the sand.
Yet, as if grieving to efface

All vestige of the human race,

On that lone shore loud moans the sea

But none, alas, shall mourn for me!

About 1815.

JOHN NEAL

FROM

THE BATTLE OF NIAGARA

A NIGHT-ATTACK BY CAVALRY

Observed ye the cloud on that mountain's dim green
So heavily hanging, as if it had been

The tent of the Thunderer, the chariot of one
Who dare not appear in the blaze of the sun?

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'T is descending to earth, and some horsemen are now
In a line of dark mist coming down from its brow.
'T is a helmeted band; from the hills they descend
Like the monarchs of storm when the forest trees bend.
No scimitars swing as they gallop along,
No clattering hoof falls sudden and strong,
No trumpet is filled and no bugle is blown,

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10

No banners abroad on the wind are thrown,

No shoutings are heard and no cheerings are given,

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No waving of red-flowing plumage to heaven,
No flashing of blades and no loosening of reins,
No neighing of steeds and no tossing of manes,
No furniture trailing, or warrior helms bowing,
Or crimson and gold-spotted drapery flowing;
But they speed like coursers whose hoofs are shod
With a silent shoe from the loosened sod. . . . .

Dark and chill is the sky, and the clouds gather round;
There's nought to be seen, yet there comes a low sound
As if something were near that would pass unobserved.
O, if 't is that band, may their right-arms be nerved!
Hark, a challenge is given! a rash charger neighs—
And a trumpet is blown-and lo, there's a blaze-
And a clashing of sabres is heard, and a shout

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Like a hurried order goes passing about;

And unfurling banners are tossed to the sky

As struggling to float on the wind passing by;

And unharness'd war-steeds are crowding together,

The horseman's thick plume and the foot-soldier's feather. The battle is up! and the thunder is pealing,

And squadrons of cavalry coursing and wheeling
And line after line in their light are revealing.

One troop of high helms thro' the fight urge their way,
Unbroken and stern, like a ship thro' the spray:
Their pistols speak quick, and their blades are all bare,
And the sparkles of steely encounter are there.

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Away they still speed! with one impulse they bound, 40 With one impulse alike, as their foes gather round, Undismayed, undisturbed; and above all the rest One rides o'er the strife like a mane o'er its crest, And holds on his way thro' the scimitars there All plunging in light, while the slumbering air Shakes wide with the rolling artillery-peal. The tall one is first; and his followers deal Around and around their desperate blows, Like the army of shadows above when it goes With the smiting of shields and the clapping of wings, When the red-crests shake and the storm-pipe sings, When the cloud-flag unfurls and the death-bugles sound, When the monarchs of space on their dark chargers bound, And the shock of their cavalry comes in the night With furniture flashing and weapons of light. So travelled this band in its pomp and its might.

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Away they have gone! and their path is all red,
Hedged in by two lines of the dying and dead-
By bosoms that burst unrevenged in the strife,
By swords that yet shake in the passing of life;
For so swift had that pageant of darkness sped,
So like a trooping of cloud-mounted dead,
That the flashing reply of the foe that was cleft
But fell on the shadows those troopers had left.

Far and away they are coursing again

O'er the clouded hill and the darkened plain;

Now choosing the turf for their noiseless route,

Now where the wet sand is strown thickest about,

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Streams their long line: like a mist troop they ride
In a winding cloud o'er the near mountain's side,
While a struggling moon throws a lustre as dim
As a sepulchre's lamp, and the vapours that swim
O'er the hills and the heavens divide as they fly-
The videttes of winds that are stationed on high.

LAKE ONTARIO

Here sleeps ONTARIO. Old Ontario, hail!
Unawed by conquering prow or pirate sail,
Still heaving in thy freedom, still unchained,
Still swelling to the skies, still unprofaned,
As when thy earliest, freest children flew
Like hawks to battle, when the swift canoe
From every shore went dipping o'er the tide

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5

Like birds that, stooping from the far cliff, ride

A moment on the billow, shriek and rise

With loaded talons, wheeling to the skies.

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The heaven's blue counterpart, the murmuring home

Of spirits shipwrecked in the ocean-foam,
Reflector of the arch that 's o'er thee bent,
Thou watery sky thou liquid firmament!
Mirror of garland-weaving Solitude:

The wild festoon, the cliff, the hanging wood,
The soaring eagle and the wing of light,
The sunny plumage and the starry flight
Of dazzling myriads in a cloudless night.
Peace to thy bosom, dark Ontario!
For ever thus may thy free waters flow
In their rude loveliness; thy lonely shore
For ever echo to the sullen roar

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Of thine own deep; thy cliffs for ever ring
With calling wild men in their journeying,
The savage chant, the panther's smothered cry
That from her airy height goes thrilling by.

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Be ever thus, as now, magnificent

In savage Nature's pomp, unbowed, unbent,
And thou wilt ever be omnipotent!

THE HOUR OF QUIET ECSTACY

It is that hour of quiet ecstacy
When every ruffling wind that passes by

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The sleeping leaf makes busiest minstrelsy;
When all at once amid the quivering shade
Millions of diamond sparklers are betrayed;
When dry leaves rustle, and the whistling song
Of keen-tuned grass comes piercingly along;
When windy pipes are heard, and many a lute
Is touched amid the skies and then is mute;
When even the foliage on the glittering steep
Of feathery bloom is whispering in its sleep;
When all the garlands of the precipice,
Shedding their blossoms, in their moonlight bliss
Are floating loosely on the eddying air

And breathing out their fragrant spirits there,
And all their braided tresses, fluttering bright,
Are sighing faintly to the shadowy light;
When every cave and grot and bower and lake
And drooping floweret-bell are all awake;
When starry eyes are burning on the cliff

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ΙΟ

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Of many a crouching tyrant, too, as if

Such melodies were grateful even to him;

1818.

When life is loveliest, and the blue skies swim

In lustre warm as sunshine but more dim;
When all the holy sentinels of night

Step forth to watch in turn and worship by their light.

1818.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE

FROM

THE CULPRIT FAY

"T is the hour of fairy ban and spell:

The wood-tick has kept the minutes well;

He has counted them all with click and stroke

Deep in the heart of the mountain oak,

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And he has awakened the sentry elve

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Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree,

To bid him ring the hour of twelve,

And call the fays to their revelry;

Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell

('T was made of the white snail's pearly shell)—

IO

162

"Midnight comes, and all is well!
Hither, hither, wing your way!

"T is the dawn of the fairy-day."

They come from beds of lichen green,
They creep from the mullen's velvet screen;
Some on the backs of beetles fly

From the silver tops of moon-touched trees,

Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high,

And rocked about in the evening breeze;

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Some from the hum-bird's downy nest

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They had driven him out by elfin power,

And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast,

Had slumbered there till the charmed hour;

Some had lain in the scoop of the rock,

With glittering ising-stars inlaid;

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And some had opened the four-o'clock,

And stole within its purple shade.

And now they throng the moonlight glade,
Above, below, on every side,

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Their little minim forms arrayed

In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride.