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In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone — nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world, — with kings,
The powerful of the earth, — the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. - The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun ; the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between ;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, and traverse Barca's desert sands;
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings, — yet — the dead are there,
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep ; the dead reign there alone.

So shalt thou rest - and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care

on, and each one, as before, will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side,
By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night
Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

W. C. Bryanto



YHAINED in the market-place he stood,

A man of giant frame,
Amid the gathering multitude

That shrunk to hear his name, All stern of look and strong of limb,

His dark eye on the ground ; And silently they gazed on him,

As on a lion bound.

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Take it — thou askest sums untold

And say that I am freed.
Take it – my wife, the long, long day, ,

Weeps by the cocoa-tree,
And my young children leave their play,

And ask in vain for me.”

“ I take thy gold, but I have made Thy fetters fast and strong, And ween that by the cocoa shade

Thy wife shall wait thee long."
Strong was the agony that shook

The captive's frame to hear,
And the proud meaning of his look

Was changed to mortal fear.

His heart was broken - crazed his brain

At once his eye grew wild:
He struggled fiercely with his chain,

Whispered, — and wept, - and smiled ;
Yet wore not long those fatal bands,

And once, at shut of day,
They drew him forth upon the sands, –
The foul hyena's prey.

W. C. Bryanta



NCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,

Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands

Encounter'd in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gush'd the life-blood of her brave, Gush’d, warm with hope and courage yet,

Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still;

Alone the chirp of fitting bird, And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain ; Men start not at the battle-cry:

Oh, be it never heard again !

Soon rested those who fought; but thou

Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now,

Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long

Through weary day and weary year ; A wild and many-weapon'd throng

Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may frown - yet faint thou not,

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,

The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; For with thy side shall dwell, at last,

The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again ;

The eternal years of God are hers ; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,

And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,

When they who help'd thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust

Like those who fell in battle here.

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