to say. I am going to my cold and silent grave; my lamp of life is nearly extinguished; my race is run, the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom ! I have but one request to ask at my departure from this world; it is the charity of its silence! Let no man write my epitaph; for as no man who knows my motives dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times and other men can do justice to my character. When my country takes her place among the nations of the earth-then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written. I HAVE DONE.
WHAT is patriotism? Is it a narrow affection for the spot where a man was born? Are
the very clods where we tread entitled to this ardent preference because they are greener? No, sir; this is not the character of the virtue, and it soars higher for its object. It is an extended self-love, mingling with all the enjoyments of life, and twisting itself with the minutest filaments of the heart. It is thus we obey the laws of society, because they are the laws of virtue. In their authority we see, not the array of force and terror, but the venerable image of our country's honor. Every good citizen makes that honor his own, and cherishes it not only as precious, but as sacred. He is willing to risk his life in its defence, and is conscious that he gains protection while he gives it; for what rights of a citizen will be deemed inviolable when a State renounces the principles that constitute their security? Or, if his life should not be invaded, what would its enjoyments be in a country odious in the eyes of strangers, and dishonored in his own? Could he look with affection and veneration to such a country as his parent? The sense of having one would die within him; he would blush for his patriotism, if he retained any, and justly, for it would be a vice. He would be a banished man in his native land.
With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee; They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven. Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep, And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems thee bound, The links are shivered, and the prison walls Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth, As springs the flame above a burning pile, And shoutest to the nations, who return Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. Thy birthright was not given by human hands: Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him, To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, And teach the reed to utter simple airs. Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, His only foes; and thou with him didst draw The earliest furrow on the mountain side, Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself, Thy enemy, although of reverend look, Hoary with many years, and far obeyed, Is later born than thou; and as he meets The grave defiance of thine elder eye
The usurper trembles in his fastnesses.
Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years, But he shall fade into a feebler age; Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares, And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap His withered hands, and from their ambush call His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant forms To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth, Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread
That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms With chains concealed in chaplets. O, not yet Mayst thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by Thy sword; nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps, And thou must watch and combat till the day Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou rest Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men, These old and friendly solitudes invite Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees Were young upon the unviolated earth, And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. -William Cullen Bryant.
[Read at the Centennial Anniversary of the Battle of Concord, April 19, 1875.]
Her champions and chosen ones? Do ye not hear, as she comes, The bay of the deep-mouthed guns? The gathering buzz of the drums? The bells that called ye to prayer, How wildly they clamor on her, Crying, "She cometh! prepare Her to praise and her to honor, That a hundred years ago Scattered here in blood and tears Potent seeds wherefrom should grow Gladness for a hundred years?"
Tell me, young men, have ye seen Creature of diviner mein,
For true hearts to long and cry for, Manly hearts to live and die for? What hath she that others want? Brows that all endearments haunt,
Eyes that make it sweet to dare, Smiles that glad untimely death, Looks that fortify despair,
Tones more brave than trumpet's breath:
Tell me, maidens, have ye known Household charm more sweetly rare? Grace of woman ampler blown? Modesty more debonair?
Younger heart with wit full grown?
O for an hour of my prime, The pulse of my hotter years, That I might praise her in rhyme Would tingle your eyelids to tears,
Our sweetness, our strength, and our star, Our hope, our joy, and our trust, Who lifted us out of the dust And made us whatever we are!
ND say, supernal Powers! who deeply scan Heaven's dark decrees, unfathom'd yet by man, When shall the world call down, to cleanse her shame, That embryo spirit, yet without a name,- That friend of Nature, whose avenging hands Shall burst the Libyan's adamantine bands? Who, sternly marking on his native soil The blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil, Shall bid each righteous heart exult, to see Peace to the slave, and vengeance on the free!
Yet, yet, degraded men! the expected day That breaks your bitter cup, is far away! Trade, wealth, and fashion ask you still to bleed, And holy men give Scripture for the deed; Scourged, and debased, no Briton stoops to save
A wretch, a coward; yes, because a slave! Eternal Nature! when thy giant hand Had heaved the floods, and fix'd the trembling land, When life sprang startling at thy plastic call, Endless her forms, and man the lord of all,— Say, was that lordly form inspired by thee To wear eternal chains, and bow the knee? Was man ordain'd the slave of man to toil, Yoked with the brutes, and fetter'd to the soil; Weigh'd in a tyrant's balance with his gold? No! Nature stamp'd us in a heavenly mould! She bade no wretch his thankless labor urge, Nor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge; No homeless Libyan, on the stormy deep,
To call upon his country's name, and weep!
Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons imparadise the night; A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth:
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air. In every clime, the magnet of his soul, Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole; For in this land of Heaven's peculiar race The heritage of nature's noblest grace, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and scepter, pageantry and pride, While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend! Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life; In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel guard of love and graces lie; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. "Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?"
Art thou a man? -a patriot?-look around; O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam That land thy country, and that spot thy home.
Man, through all ages of revolving time, Unchanging man, in every varying clime Deems his own land of every land the pride, Beloved by heaven, o'er all the world beside; His home the spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. -James Montgomery.
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