Chafes not thy heart, as chafes the panting breast Of the caged bird against his prison bars, That thou, the crowned warrior of the west, The victor of a hundred forest wars, Should'st in thy age, become a raree show Led, like a walking bear, about the town, A new caught monster, who is all the go, And stared at gratis, by the gaping clown? Boils not thy blood, while thus thou'rt led about, The sport and mockery of the rabble rout?
Whence came thy cold philosophy? whence came, Thou tearless, stern, and uncomplaining one, The power that taught thee thus to veil the flame Of thy fierce passions? Thou despisest fun, And thy proud spirit scorns the white men's glee, Save thy fierce sport, when at the funeral pile, Of a bound warrior in his agony, Who meets thy horrid laugh with dying smile. Thy face, in length, reminds one of a Quaker's, Thy dances, too, are solemn as a Shaker's.
Proud scion of a noble stem! thy tree Is blanched, and bare, and seared, and leafless now. I'll not insult its fallen majesty, Nor drive with careless hand, the ruthless plough Over its roots. Torn from its parent mould, Rich, warm and deep, its fresh, free, balmy air, No second verdure quickens in our cold New, barren earth; no life sustains it there. But even though prostrate, 'tis a noble thing, Though crownless, powerless, "every inch a king."
Give us thy hand, old nobleman of nature, Proud ruler of the forest aristocracy; The best of blood glows in thy every feature, And thy curled lip speaks scorn for our democracy, Thou wear'st thy titles on that godlike brow; Let him who doubts them, meet thine eagle eye, He'll quail beneath its glance, and disavow All question of thy noble family; For thou may'st here become, with strict propriety, A leader in our city good society.
LINES ON A SKULL DUG UP BY THE PLOUGH.
[ From the German of Friedrich Kind. ]
BY D. SEYMOUR.
Couldst thou not sleep upon thy mother's breast? Was't thou, ere day dawned, wakened from thy slumbers? Did earth deny to thee the quiet rest She grants to all her children's countless numbers? In narrow bed they sleep away the hours Beneath the winter's frost, the summer's flowers; No shade protects thee from the sun's fierce glow, Thy only winding-sheet the pitying snow.
How naked art thou! Pale is now that face Which once, no doubt, was blooming—deeply dinted, A gaping wound doth thy broad brow deface; Was't by the sword or careless plough imprinted? Where are the eyes whose glances once were lightning! No soul is in their hollow sockets brightening; Yet do they gaze on me, now fierce, now sad, As though I power o'er thy destiny had.