Quaint Gleanings from Ancient Poetry Part 8

Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding, With hireling hosts, a ruffian band, Affright and desolate the land, While Peace and Liberty lie bleeding?

To arms, to arms, ye brave, Th'avenging sword unsheath; March on, march on, all hearts resolv'd On victory or death.

Now, now, the dang'rous storm is rolling Which treach'rous kings, confederate, raise; The dogs of war, let loose, are howling, And, lo! our fields and cities blaze; And shall we basely view the ruin, While lawless force, with guilty stride, Spreads desolation far and wide, With crimes and blood his hands embruing?

To arms, ye brave, etc.

With luxury and pride surrounded, The vile insatiate despots dare, Their thirst of power and gold unbounded, To mete and vend the light and air.

Like beasts of burden would they load us, Like G.o.ds, would bid their slaves adore; But man is man, and who is more?

Then shall they longer lash and goad us?

To arms, ye brave, etc.

O Liberty! can man resign thee, Once having felt thy gen'rous flame?

Can dungeons, bolts, and bars confine thee, Or whips thy n.o.ble spirit tame?

Too long the world has wept, bewailing That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield; But freedom is our sword and s.h.i.+eld, And all their arts are unavailing.

To arms, ye brave, etc.

A DIRGE.

Bow the head, thou lily fair, Bow the head in mournful guise; Sickly turn thy s.h.i.+ning white, Bend thy stalk, and never rise.

Shed thy leaves, thou lovely rose, Shed thy leaves, so sweet and gay; Spread them wide on the cold earth, Quickly let them fade away.

Fragrant woodbine, all untwine, All untwine from yonder bower; Drag thy branches on the ground, Stain with dust each tender flower,

For, woe is me! the gentle knot That did in willing durance bind My happy soul to hers for life By cruel death is now untwined.

Her head, with dim, half-closed eyes, Is bowed upon her breast of snow; And cold and faded are those cheeks That wont with cheerful red to glow.

Mute, mute, is that harmonious voice That wont to breathe the sounds of love, And lifeless are those beauteous limbs That with such ease and grace did move.

And I, of all my bliss bereft.

Lonely and sad must ever moan, Dead to each joy the world can give, Alive to memory alone.

FINIS.