“O, States of the Union, all warfare shall cease;
Christ lifts o’er the nation the banner of peace,
As the prism-banded bow of the sky stanched the flood
Its earth-child, the flag, ends the deluge of blood.
War’s death-dealing cloud has forever rolled by,
And Peace, with her olive branch, smiles from the sky
Forever is silenced dissension’s wild roar;
The demon of hate rends the Union no more.”
And, lo! the bells answered from valley and hill:
“Peace, peace upon earth, to all men of good-will!”
THE HUNTER’S LAST RIDE.
[We rode for hours, the day following, in the track of the fire which had swept the vast prairies as far as the eye could reach with utter desolation, finding on several occasions the charred remains of animals which had perished in the flames, and in one instance those of an unfortunate hunter and his horse.—Brissot’s Western Travels, Vol. II.]
One autumn eve, when clouds unfurled
Swept down the west in bannered splendor,
And dying sunset bathed the world
In dolphin rainbows, mild and tender,
As if the sun in heaven afar
Lingered to greet the Evening Star,
Mingling his glance of clearer light
With the first radiance of the night,
And in the twilight, tarrying late,
Unwilling passed the western gate;
A hunter, wearied with the chase,
With his spent steed was slowly turning
Unto his far-off resting place,
Where his lone campfire light was burning—
For many a mile his steed had gone
O’er the wide prairie since the dawn.
The choice bits from the saddle hung,
The deer’s fat haunch, the buffalo’s tongue,
A simple but a sweet repast
To cheer his long and painful fast.
Slow paced the strong but weary steed
Of spacious chest and lightning speed,
A coal black of the Norman breed
Who ne’er had failed in time of need;
A creature full of strength and grace,
The noblest of his noble race
In toil, in battle, or the chase,
To hunt the bear on mountain side,
To chase the deer o’er prairie wide,
Or dash upon the ambuscade
Of wily Indian foe arrayed,
Or plunge through winter’s deepest snow,
Or breast the torrent’s swiftest flow.
To huntsman who has borne the toil,
Welcome the rest, and sweet the spoil;
So mused McGregor in his mind,
Leading his steed, when far behind,
Upon his startled ears there came
A rushing sound of distant flame—
A long, hoarse murmuring, sullen sound,
As when an earthquake shakes the ground.
Or the volcano’s voice of wrath
Warns all to leave the lava’s path.
A moment scarce he turned his head,
Too well he knew that sound of dread,
A moment—and McGregor saw
A sight to chill his soul with awe;
Behind him, hastening onward came
A long, red serpent line of flame,
Which, hissing, shot its tongues of light
Upward into the gathering night,
While midway ’twixt the earth and sky
Like a death-angel hovering by,
The smoke pall rolled in volumes dread,
The awful banner of the dead.
Quickly the burden was untied—
“Now, Saladin!” the huntsman cried,
“Now, Saladin, my gallant steed,
Attest thyself of noble breed,
For never yet thy matchless speed
Has served us in so sore a need,
And never in the fiercest chase
Hast thou e’er made so dread a race
As this wild fight for life or death
From yon fire-demon’s scorching breath.”
With nostrils spread and pointed ear,
And eye of fierceness, not of fear,
A moment brief, Saladin halted,
While to his seat his rider vaulted,
A moment snuffed the hot flame’s breath,
The stifling atmosphere of death;
A moment shook his streaming mane,
Then sped like lightning o’er the plain—
Fly! Not for one brief moment stay—
Fly, for thy life—away, away!
Stretch every muscle—sinew—fly!
To pause one moment is to die!
Weary and worn and spent with pain,
The struggling steed bounds o’er the plain
Each iron sinew vainly straining;
The fire upon his path is gaining;
The mad flame brighter and brighter glows,
The fatal circle smaller grows,
And hotter, fiercer, wilder, higher,
Leap the red demons of the fire.