Could it set thy heart a-throbbing, it were mine to wail and weep! But I will not waste my sorrow, lest the Campbell women say That the daughters of Clanranald are as weak and frail as they. I had wept thee, hadst thou fallen, like our fathers, on thy shield, When a host of English foemen camped upon a Scottish field, I had mourned thee, hadst thou perished with the foremost of his name, When the valiant and the noble died around the dauntless Græme! But I will not wrong thee, husband, with my unavailing cries, Whilst thy cold and mangled body, stricken by the traitor, lies; Whilst he counts the gold and glory that this hideous night has won, And his heart is big with triumph at the murder he has done. Other eyes than mine shall glisten, other hearts be rent in twain, Ere the heath-bells on thy hillock wither in the autumn rain. Then I'll seek thee where thou sleepest, and I'll veil my weary Praying for a place beside thee, dearer than my bridal-bed: And I'll give thee tears, my husband, if the tears remain to me, When the widows of the foeman cry the coranach* for thee! LXXVI. THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. BRYANT. HERE are old trees-tall oaks and gnarled pines That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet A lamentation for the dead. To linger here, among the flitting birds And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old My thoughts go up the long, dim path of years, O Freedom, thou art not, as poets dream, With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, Have forged thy chain; yet while he deems thee bound, Thy birthright was not given by human hands; Thou, by his side, mid the tangled wood, Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years, 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 Of the new earth and heaven! But wouldst thou rest LXXVII. THE PILGRIM FATHERS. SPRAGUE. CHARLES SPRAGUE was born in Boston, October 25, 1791, and has constantly resided here. He made himself first known as a poet by several prize prologues at the opening of theaters, which had a polish of numbers and a vigor of expression not often found in composition of this class. In 1823 he was the successful competitor for a prize offered for the best ode to be recited at a Shakespeare pageant at the Boston Theater. This is the most fervid and brilliant of all his poems, and has much of the lyric rush and glow. In 1829 he recited a poem called "Curiosity," before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard College, which is polished in its versification, and filled with carefully wrought and beautiful pictures. In 1830 he pronounced an ode at the centennial celebration of the settlement of Boston (from which the following extract is taken), which is a finished and animated performance. He has also written many smaller pieces of much merit. Mr. Sprague presents an encouraging example of the union of practical business habits with the taste of a scholar and the sensibilities of a poet. He was for many years cashier of a bank, and performed his prosaic duties with as much attentiveness and skill as if he had never written a line of verse. EHOLD! they come, those sainted forms, BE Unshaken through the strife of storms; And earth puts on its rudest frown; But colder, ruder, was the hand That drove them from their own fair land; Their own fair land, Refinement's chosen seat, Art's trophied dwelling, Learning's green retreat,— For all, but gentle Charity, renowned. With streaming eye yet steadfast heart, And burst each tender tie, Haunts, where their sunny youth was passed; In peaceful age to die; Friends, kindred, comfort, all, they spurned; And to a world of darkness turned, When Israel's race from bondage fled, But here Their steps to guide, their souls to cheer; They saw, through sorrow's lengthening night, The cloud they gazed at was the smoke And dared a fearful doom, They come ; that coming who shall tell? We, too, might yield the joys of home, And tread a shore of gloom, Knew we those waves, through coming time, |