AYE, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle-shout,
And burst the cannon's roar ;-
The meteor of the ocean air,
Shall sweep the clouds no more!
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee ;-
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea !
And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,-
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.
LXXVIII. THE ENGLISH TONGUE.
In ancient times, I've heard my grandam tell,
Young maids were taught to read, and write, and spell;
(Neglected arts! once learned by rigid rules
As prime essentials in the 'common schools.')
Well taught beside in many a useful art
To mend the manners and improve the heart;
Nor yet unskilled to turn the busy wheel,
To ply the shuttle and to twirl the reel,
Could thrifty tasks with cheerful grace pursue,
Themselves' accomplished,' and their duties too.
Of tongues, each maiden had but one, 'tis said,
(Enough, 'twas thought to serve a ladies' head,)
But that was ENGLISH,-great and glorious tongue;
That CHATHAM spoke, and MILTON, SHAKSPEARE, sung;
Let thoughts, too idle to be fitly dressed
In sturdy Saxon, be in French expressed;
Let lovers breathe Italian,-like, in sooth,
Its singers, soft, emasculate, and smooth;
But for a tongue, whose ample powers embrace
Beauty and force, sublimity and grace,
Ornate or plain, harmonious, yet strong,
And formed alike for eloquence and song,
Give me the ENGLISH,-aptest tongue to paint
A sage or dunce, a villain or a saint,
Το spur the slothful, counsel the distressed,
To lash the oppressor, and to soothe the oppressed,
To lend fantastic Humor freest scope,
To marshal all his laughter-moving troop,
Give Pathos power, and Fancy lightest wings,
And Wit his merriest whims and keenest stings!
LXXIX.-MONODY ON SAMUEL PATCH.
TOLL for SAM PATCH! SAM PATCH, who jumps no more,
This or the world to come. SAM PATCH is dead!
The vulgar pathway to the unknown shore
Of dark futurity, he would not tread.
No friends stood sorrowing round his dying bed; Nor with decorous woe, sedately stepp'd
Behind his corpse, and tears by retail shed;—
The mighty river, as it onward swept,
In one great, wholesale sob, his body drown'd and kept.
Sam was a fool. But the large world of such
Has thousands-better taught, alike absurd,
And less sublime. Of fame he soon got much,
Where distant cataracts spout, of him men heard.
Alas for SAM! Had he aright preferr'd
The kindly element, to which he gave
Himself so fearlessly, we had not heard
That it was now his winding-sheet and grave,
Nor sung 'twixt tears and smiles, our requiem for the brave
Was his device, "and there was no mistake,”
Except his last; and then he did but die,
A blunder which the wisest men will make.
Aloft, where mighty floods the mountains break,
To stand, the target of ten thousand eyes,
And down into the coil and water-quake
To leap, like MAIA's offspring, from the skies-
For this, all vulgar flights he ventured to despise.
And while Niagara prolongs its thunder,
Though still the rock primeval disappears,
And nations change their bounds-the theme of wonder
Shall SAM go down the cataract of long years;
And if there be sublimity in tears,
Those shall be precious which the adventurer shed
When his frail star gave way, and waked his fears
Lest by the ungenerous crowd it might be said,
hat he was all a hoax, and that his pluck had fled.
But, ere he leap'd, he begg'd of those who made
Money by his dread venture, that if he
Should perish, such collection should be paid
As might be pick'd up from the "
To his mother. This, his last request, shall be-
Though she who bore him ne'er his fate should know—
An iris, glittering o'er his memory,
When all the streams have worn their barriers low,
And, by the sea drunk up, forever cease to flow.
Therefore it is consider'd, that SAM PATCH
Shall never be forgot in prose or rhyme ;
His name shall be a portion in the batch
Of the heroic dough, which baking Time
Kneads for consuming ages, and the chime
Of fame's old bells, long as they truly ring,
Shall tell of him; he dived for the sublime,
And found it. Thou, who with the eagle's wing,
Being a goose, wouldst fly,—dream not of such a thing!
THE Cross, thus formed, he held on high,
With wasted hand and haggard eye,
And strange and mingled feelings woke,
While his anathema he spoke.
"Woe to the clansman who shall view
This symbol of sepulchral yew,
Forgetful that its branches grew
Where weep the heavens their holiest dew
On Alpine's dwelling low!
Deserter of his chieftain's trust,
He ne'er shall mingle with their dust,
But from his sires and kindred thrust,
Each clansman's execration just
Shall doom him wrath and woe."
He paused-the word the vassals took,
With forward step and fiery look,
On high their native brands they shook,
Their clattering targets wildly strook;
And first, in murmur low,
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