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
That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass,

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,
Back to the earliest days of liberty.

O Freedom, thou art not, as poets dream,
A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs,
And wavy tresses, gushing from the cap
With which the Roman master crowned his slave
When he took off the gyves! A bearded man,
Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailéd hand
Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow,
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred

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, mid the tangled wood,
Didst war upon the panther and the wolf,
His only foes; and thou with him didst draw
The earliest furrows 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, forms of fair and gallant mien,
To catch thy gaze, and utter 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.

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;
Heaven's winter cloud hangs coldly down,

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,—
By valor guarded, and by victory crowned,

For all, but gentle Charity, renowned.

With streaming eye yet steadfast heart,
Even from that land they dared to part,

And burst each tender tie,

Haunts, where their sunny youth was passed;
Homes, where they fondly hoped at last

In peaceful age to die;

Friends, kindred, comfort, all, they spurned;
Their fathers' hallowed graves;

And to a world of darkness turned,
Beyond a world of waves.

When Israel's race from bondage fled,
Signs from on high the wanderers led;
Heaven hung no symbol here,

But here

Their steps to guide, their souls to cheer;

They saw, through sorrow's lengthening night,
Nought but the fagot's guilty light;

The cloud they gazed at was the smoke
That round their murdered brethren broke.
A fearful path they trod,

And dared a fearful doom,
To build an altar to their God,
And find a quiet tomb.

They come ; that coming who shall tell?
The eye may weep, the heart may swell,
But the poor tongue in vain essays
A fitting note for them to raise.
We hear the after-shout that rings
For them who smote the power of kings:
The swelling triumph all would share,
But who the dark defeat would dare,
And boldly meet the wrath and woe
That wait the unsuccessful blow?
It were an envied fate, we deem,
To live a land's recorded theme,
When we are in the tomb;

We, too, might yield the joys of home,
And waves of winter darkness roam,

And tread a shore of gloom,

Knew we those waves, through coming time,
Should roll our names to every clime;
Felt we that millions on that shore
Should stand, our memory to adore.
But no glad vision burst in light
Upon the Pilgrims' aching sight;