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Forgets she how the Bay State, in answer to the call
breath Of northern winds the thrilling sounds of “Liberty or
What asks the Old Dominion ? If now her sons have proved False to their father's memory, false to the faith they loved ; If she can scoff at Freedom, and its Great Charter spum, Must we of Massachusetts from Truth and Duty turn ?
We hunt your bondmen flying from slavery's hateful hell-
Thank God ! not yet so vilely can Massachusetts bow,
and cool, She thus can stoop her chainless neck, a sister's slave and
All that a Sister State should be, all that a free State may,
alone, And reap the bitter harvest which ye yourselves have sown!
If slavery be a reproach, and too just a reproach it is to the Southern States, surely the citizens of New England may justly pride themselves upon
the poetry which has arisen out of the sin and shame of their brethren. Time will inevitably chase away the crime, for national crimes are in their very nature transient, whilst the noble effusions that sprang from that foul source, whether in the verse of the poet, or the speeches of the orator, are imperishable.
Another of my sins of omission is Mr. Halleck, a poet of a different stamp, with less of earnestness and fire, but more of grace and melody. How musical are these stanzas on the Music of Nature !
Young thoughts have music in them, love
And happiness their theme;
That lulls a morning dream.
In childhood's frolic hours,
Of sunshine and of flowers.
There's music in the forest leaves
When summer winds are there,
That braid their sunny hair.
The first wild bird, that drinks the dew
From violets of the spring,
The fluttering of his wing.
There's music in the dash of waves
When the swift bark cleaves the foam;
The mariner's song of home.
At midnight on the sea
To-day the forest leaves are green,
They'll wither on the morrow;
To the widow's wail of sorrow.
Where are the forest birds ?
The moonlight music of the waves
In storms is heard no more,
At midnight on the shore.
Still better than these verses are the stanzas on the death of his brother poet Drake :
Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days; None knew thee but to love thee,
None named thee but to praise.
Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep; And long where thou art lying
Will tears the cold turf steep.
When hearts whose truth was proven
Like thine are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth ;
And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and woe were thine,
It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow; But I've in vain essayed it,
And feel I cannot now.
memory bids me weep thee Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply
That mourns a man like thee.