THEODORE S. FAY.. MY NATIVE LAND. COLUMBIA, was thy continent stretch'd wild, And art thou Nature's youngest, fairest child, When struggling JOSEPH dropp'd fraternal tears, When GoD came down from heaven, and mortal men were seers? Or, have thy forests waved, thy rivers run, Yet, what to me, or when, or how thy birth,-- Or whether since, by changes, silently, Of sand. and shell, and wave, thy wonders grew; shock stupendous rent the globe in two, And thee, a fragment, far in western oceans threw. I know but that I love thee. On my heart, Like a dear friend's, are stamp'd thy features now; Though there the Roman or the Grecian art Hath lent, to deck thy plain and mountain brow, No broken temples, fain at length to bow, [time. Moss-grown and crumbling with the weight of Not these o'er thee their mystic splendours throw, Themes eloquent for pencil or for rhyme, As many a soul can tell that pours its thoughts sublime. But thou art sternly artless, wildly free: We worship thee for beauties all thine own: Like damsel, young and sweet, and sure to be Admired, but only for herself alone. With richer foliage ne'er was land o'ergrown, No mightier rivers run, nor mountains rise, Nor ever lakes with lovelier graces shone, Nor wealthier harvests waved in human eyes, Nor lay more liquid stars along more heavenly skies. I dream of thee, fairest of fairy streams, Sweet Hudson! Float we on thy summer breast, Who views thy enchanted windings ever deems Thy banks, of mortal shores, the loveliest! Hail to thy shelving slopes, with verdure dress'd, Author of "Norman Leslie," "The Countess Ida," etc., and now Secretary of Legation at Berlin. He is a native of New York. Bright break thy waves the varied beach upon; Soft rise thy hills, by amorous clouds caress'd; Clear flow thy waters, laughing in the sunWould through such peaceful scenes my life might gently run! And, lo! the Catskills print the distant sky, even, Till, as you nearer draw, each wooded height Puts off the azure hues by distance given; And slowly break upon the enamour'd sight Ravine, crag, field, and wood, in colours true and bright. Mount to the cloud-kiss'd summit. Far below Spreads the vast champaign like a shoreless sea. Mark yonder narrow streamlet feebly flow, Like idle brook that creeps ingloriously; Can that the lovely, lordly Hudson be, Stealing by town and mountain? Who beholds, At break of day this scene, when, silently, Its map of field, wood, hamlet, is unroll'd, While, in the east, the sun uprears his locks of gold, Till earth receive him never can forget? Even when return'd amid the city's roar, The fairy vision haunts his memory yet, As in the sailor's fancy shines the shore. Imagination cons the moment o'er, When first-discover'd, awe-struck and amazed, Scarce loftier JOVE-whom men and gods adoreOn the extended earth beneath him gazed, Temple, and tower, and town, by human insect raised. Blow, scented gale, the snowy canvass swell, And flow, thou silver, eddying current on. Grieve we to bid each lovely point farewell, That, ere its graces half are seen, is gone. By woody bluff we steal, by leaning lawn, By palace, village, cot, a sweet surprise, At every turn the vision breaks upon; Till to our wondering and uplifted eyes The Highland rocks and hills in solemn grandeur [rise. Nor clouds in heaven, nor billows in the deep, More graceful shapes did ever heave or roll, Nor came such pictures to a painter's sleep, Nor beam'd such visions on a poet's soul! The pent-up flood, impatient of control, In ages past here broke its granite bound, Then to the sea in broad meanders stole, While ponderous ruins strew'd the broken ground, And these gigantic hills forever closed around. And ever-wakeful echo here doth dwell, The nymph of sportive mockery, that still Hides behind every rock, in every dell, And softly glides, unseen, from hill to hill, No sound doth rise but mimic it she will,The sturgeon's splash repeating from the shore, Aping the boy's voice with a voice as shrill, The bird's low warble, and the thunder's roar, Always she watches there, each murmur telling o'er. Awake, my lyre, with other themes inspired. On the great day, and hold their deed aright, To stop the breath would quench young freedom's holy light. But see! the broadening river deeper flows, While, from the west, the fading sunlight throws In charms that soothe the heart with sweet desires, And thoughts of friends we ne'er again may see, Till, lo! ahead Manhatta's bristling spires, Above her thousand roofs red with day's dying fires. May greet the wanderer of Columbia's shore, Proud Venice of the west! no lovelier scene. Of thy vast throngs now faintly comes the roar, Though late like beating ocean surf I ween,And everywhere thy various barks are seen, Cleaving the limpid floods that round thee flow, Encircled by thy banks of sunny green,― The panting steamer plying to and fro, Or the tall sea-bound ship abroad on wings of snow. And radiantly upon the glittering mass The god of day his parting glances sends, As some warm soul, from earth about to pass, Back on its fading scenes and mourning friends Deep words of love and looks of rapture bends, More bright and bright, as near their end they be. On, on, great orb! to earth's remotest ends, Each land irradiate, and every sea But O, my native land, not one, not one like thee! C. C. MOORE.* FROM A FATHER TO HIS CHILDREN, AFTER HAVING HAD HIS PORTRAIT TAKEN FOR THEM. THIS semblance of your parent's time-worn face Some floating fragment from oblivion's wave: When we have moulder'd in the silent tomb. But no! it is not we who moulder there, We, of essential light that ever burns; We take our way through untried fields of air, When to the earth this earth-born frame returns. CLEMENT C. MOORE, formerly one of the professors in Columbia College, resides in New York. A collection of his "Poems," in one volume, was published in 1845. And 'tis the glory of the master's art Some radiance of this inward light to find, Some touch that to his canvass may impart A breath, a sparkle of the immortal mind. Alas! the pencil's noblest power can show But some faint shadow of a transient thought, Some waken'd feeling's momentary glow, Some swift impression in its passage caught. O that the artist's pencil could portray A father's inward bosom to your eyes, What hopes, and fears, and doubts perplex his way, What aspirations for your welfare rise. Then might this unsubstantial image prove, When I am gone, a guardian of your youth, A friend for ever urging you to move In paths of honour, holiness, and truth. Let fond imagination's power supply The void that baffles all the painter's art; And when those mimic features meet your eye, Then fancy that they speak a parent's heart. Think that you still can trace within those eyes The kindling of affection's fervid beam, The searching glance that every fault espies, The fond anticipation's pleasing dream. Fancy those lips still utter sounds of praise, Or kind reproof that checks each wayward will, The warning voice, or precepts that may raise Your thoughts above this treacherous world of ill. And thus shall Art attain her loftiest power; To noblest purpose shall her efforts tend: Not the companion of an idle hour, But Virtue's handmaid and Religion's friend F. S. KEY.* THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. O! SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming; Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming? And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was stiil there; O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? On the shore,dimly seen through the mists of the deep Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze o'er the towering steep As it fitfully blows, half-conceals, half-discloses? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam; Its full glory reflected now shines on the stream; "Tis the star-spangled banner, O! long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. *The late Mr. KEY was a native of Baltimore. This song is supposed to have been written by a prisoner on board the British fleet, on the morning after the unsuccessful bombardment of Fort McHenry. And where is the band who so vauntingly swore, No refuge could save the hireling and slave Bless'd with victory and peace, may the heavenrescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation. Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, And this be our motto, "In GoD is our trust," And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. JOSEPH HOPKINSON. HAIL, COLUMBIA. HAIL, Columbia! happy land! Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, Peace and safety we shall find. With the popular national songs, "The Star-spangled Banner" and "Hail, Columbia," I bring to a close this volume of specimens of American poetry. These lyrics have not much poetic merit, but they are as well known throughout the United States as the Rhine Song is in Germany, or the Marseilles Hymn in France. The late excellent Judge HOPKINSON,† a few months before his death, addressed to me a letter from which I quote the following account of the circumstances attending the composition of "Hail, Columbia :" "It was written in the summer of 1799, when war with France was thought to be inevitable. Congress was then in session in Philadelphia, deliberating upon that important subject, and acts of hostility had actually taken place. The contest between England and France was raging, and the people of the United States were divided into parties for the one side or the other, some thinking that policy and duty required us to espouse the cause of republican France, as she was called; while others were for connecting ourselves with England, under the belief that she was the great preservative power of good principles and safe government. The violation of our rights by both belligerents was forcing us from the just and wise policy of President WASHINGTON, which was to do equal justice The Honourable Joseph Hopkinson, LL. D. Vice-President of the Ame rican Philosophical Society, and President of the Pennsylvania Academy of Fin Arts, etc., died in Philadelphia on the fifteenth of January, 1842, in the Beventy second year of his age. He was a sou of Francis Hopkinson, one of the most distinguished patriots of the Revolution. Stereotyped by L. Johnson, Philadelphia. Immortal patriots! rise once more; Sound, sound the trump of Fame! Ring through the world with loud applause, With equal skill, and godlike power, Behold the chief who now commands, to both, to take part with neither, but to preserve a strict and honest neutrality between them. The prospect of s rupture with France was exceedingly offensive to the por tion of the people who espoused her cause, and the vio lence of the spirit of party has never risen higher, I think not so high, in our country, as it did at that time, upon that question. The theatre was then open in our city. A young man belonging to it, whose talent was as a singer, was about to take his benefit. I had known him when h was at school. On this acquaintance, he called on m one Saturday afternoon, his benefit being announced for the following Monday. His prospects were very disheart ening; but he said that if he could get a patriotic song adapted to the tune of the "President's March," he did not doubt of a full house; that the poets of the theatrical corps had been trying to accomplish it, but had not suc ceeded. I told him I would try what I could do for him. He came the next afternoon; and the song, such as it is, was ready for him. The object of the author was to get up an American spirit, which should be independent of, and above the interests, passions, and policy of both belligerents: and look and feel exclusively for our own honour and rights. No allusion is made to France or England, or the quarrel between them: or to the question, which was most in fault in their treatment of us: of course the song found favour with both parties, for both were Americans; at least neither could disavow the sentiments and feelings it inculeated. Such is the history of this song, which has endured infinitely beyond the expectation of the author, as it is beyond any merit it can boast of, except that of being truly and exclusively patriotic in its sentiments and spirit. "Very respectfully, your most obedient servant, "Rev. RUFUS W. GRISWOLD." |