In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim To mix forever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Shalt thou retire alone nor couldst thou wish Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world, with kings, The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good, 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, Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound And millions in those solitudes, since first In their last sleep; the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest and what if thou withdraw The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes To that mysterious realm, where each shall take Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. W. C. Bryant, CCLX. THE AFRICAN CHIEF. CHAINED in the market-place he stood, A man of giant frame, Amid the gathering multitude Vainly, but well, that chief had fought- Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, The scars his dark broad bosom wore Then to his conqueror he spake "My brother is a king: Undo this necklace from my neck, And take this bracelet ring, And send me where my brother reigns, With store of ivory from the plains, -"Not for thy ivory nor thy gold The battle-spear again. A price thy nation never gave For thou shalt be the Christian's slave, In land beyond the sea." Then wept the warrior chief, and bade To shred his locks away, And, one by one, each heavy braid Before the victor lay. Thick were the platted locks, and long, And deftly hidden there Shone many a wedge of gold among The dark and crispèd hair. "Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold, Long kept for sorest need: His heart was broken -crazed his brain wild: At once his eye grew 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. Bryant. ON CCX. THE BATTLE-FIELD. NCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, 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; 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! Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, Die full of hope and manly trust Like those who fell in battle here. |