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YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
Ye mariners of England !
In both from age to age, thou didst.
rejoice, They were thy chosen music, Lib
erty! There came a tyrant, and with holy
glee Thou foughtst against him, but hast
vainly striven; Thou from thy Alpine holds at
length art driven, Where not a torrent murmurs heard
by thee. Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been
bereft: Then cleave, () cleave to that which
still is left; For, high-souled maid, what sorrow
would it be That mountain floods should thunder
as before, And ocean bellow from his rocky
shore, And neither awful voice be heard by thee!
Britannia needs no bulwark,
ALAS! what boots the long, laborious
quest Of moral prudence, sought through
good and ill; Or pains abstruse, to elevate the
will, And lead us on to that transcendent
rest Where every passion shall the sway
attest Of Reason, seated on her sovereign
hill? What is it but a vain and curious
skill, If sapient Germany must lie de
pressed Beneath the brutal sword ? Her
haughty schools Shall blush; and may not we with
sorrow say, A few strong instincts and a few
plain rules, Among the herdsmen of the Alps,
have wrought More for mankind at this unhappy
day, Than all the pride of intellect and thought.
No sleep till morn, when youth and
pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with
flying feet. But, hark! - that heavy sound
breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would
repeat, And nearer, clearer, deadlier than
before! Arm! arm! it is – it is the can
non's opening roar!
BRAVE Schill! by death delivered,
take thy flight From Prussia's timid region. Go,
and rest With heroes, ’mid the Islands of the
Blest, Or in the fields of empyrean light. A meteor wert thou crossing a dark
night; Yet shall thy name, conspicuous
and sublime, Stand in the spacious firmament of
time, Fixed as a star: such glory is thy
right. Alas! it may not be: for earthly fame Is fortune's frail dependent; yet
there lives A Judge, who, as man claims by
merit, gives; To whose all-pondering mind
noble aim, Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed; In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed.
Within a windowed niche of that
high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain:
he did hear That sound the first amidst the
festival, And caught its tone with death's
prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he
deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that
peal too well Which stretched his father on a
bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood
alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, fore
most fighting, fell.
We shall march prospering, - not
through his presence; Songs may inspirit us, - not from
his lyre; Deeds will be done — while he boasts
his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the
rest bade aspire. Blot out his name, then, — record
one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more
foot-path untrod, One more triumph for devils, and
sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one
more insult to God! Life's night begins; let him never
come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation,
and pain, Forced praise on our part, — the
glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning
again! Best fight on well, for we taught
him, — strike gallantly, Aim at our heart ere we pierce
through his own; Then let him receive the new knowl
edge and wait us, Pardoned in Heaven, the first by the throne!
ALAS! for them, their day is o'er, Their fires are out on hill and shore; No more for them the wild deer
bounds, The plough is on their hunting
grounds; The pale man's axe rings through
their woods, The pale man's sail skims o'er their
floods; Their pleasant springs are dry; Their children, - look, by power
opprest, Beyond the mountains of the west, Their children go to die.
THE LANDING OF THE PIL
GRIM FATHERS IN NEW
On a stern and rockbound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tossed. And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er, Wher a band of exiles moored their
bark On the wild New England shore.