Forgets she how the Bay State, in answer to the call Of her old House of Burgesses spoke out from Fanueil Hall? When echoing back her Henry's cry, came pealing on each 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 spurn, 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, The spirit of her early time is with her even now; Dream not because her pilgrim blood moves slow, and calm, and cool, She thus can stoop her chainless neck, a sister's slave and tool! All that a Sister State should be, all that a free State may, 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; And music wanders in the wind There's music in the forest leaves That braid their sunny hair. The first wild bird, that drinks the dew From violets of the spring, Has music in his voice, and in The fluttering of his wing. There's music in the dash of waves The mariner's song of home. When moon and starbeams smiling meet At midnight on the sea— 米 * * * * * To-day the forest leaves are green, They'll wither on the morrow; And the maiden's laugh be changed ere long Come with the winter snows and ask Where are the forest birds? The answer is a silent one More eloquent than words. The moonlight music of the waves In storms is heard no more, When the living lightning mocks the wreck Still better than these verses are the stanzas on the death of his brother poet Drake : |