| Lady, if while that chord of thine, So beautifully strung To music that seem'd just divine, Still sweetly round me rung, I should essay a higher song Than humblest minstrel may, Shame o'er my lyre would breathe the wrong, And lure my hand away. Forgive me then if I forbear, Where thou hast done so well, Nor o'er my harp strings idly dare What I should feebly tell. 'Tis woman that alone can breathe These holier fancies free— Ah, then, be thine the fadeless wreath I proudly yield to thee. |
O.
We may add to the critique of our friend O. that in looking over cursorily the poems of Mellen, we have been especially taken with the following spirited lyric.
STANZAS,
Sung at Plymouth, on the Anniversary of the landing of our Fathers, 22d Dec. 1820.
| Wake your harp's music!—louder—higher, And pour your strains along, And smite again each quiv'ring wire, In all the pride of Song! Shout like those godlike men of old, Who daring storm and foe, On this bless'd soil their anthem roll'd, Two hundred years ago! From native shores by tempests driven, They sought a purer sky, And found beneath a wilder heaven, The home of liberty! An altar rose—and prayers—a ray Broke on their night of wo— The harbinger of Freedom's day, Two hundred years ago! They clung around that symbol too, Their refuge and their all; And swore while skies and waves were blue, That altar should not fall. They stood upon the red man's sod, 'Neath heaven's unpillar'd bow, With home—a country—and a God, Two hundred years ago! Oh! 'twas a hard unyielding fate That drove them to the seas, And Persecution strove with Hate, To darken her decrees: But safe above each coral grave, Each booming ship did go— A God was on the western wave, Two hundred years ago! They knelt them on the desert sand, By waters cold and rude, Alone upon the dreary strand Of Ocean'd solitude! They look'd upon the high blue air, And felt their spirits glow, Resolved to live or perish there, Two hundred years ago! The Warrior's red right arm was bar'd, His eye flash'd deep and wild; Was there a foreign footstep dar'd To seek his home and child? The dark chiefs yell'd alarm—and swore The white man's blood should flow, And his hewn bones should bleach their shore, Two hundred years ago! But lo! the warrior's eye grew dim, His arm was left alone; The still black wilds which shelter'd him, No longer were his own! Time fled—and on this hallow'd ground His highest pine lies low, And cities swell where forests frown'd, Two hundred years ago! Oh! stay not to recount the tale, Twas bloody—and 'tis past; The firmest cheek might well grow pale, To hear it to the last. The God of Heaven, who prospers us, Could bid a nation grow, And shield us from the red man's curse, Two hundred years ago! Come then great shades of glorious men, From your still glorious grave; Look on your own proud land again, Oh! bravest of the brave! We call ye from each mould'ring tomb, And each blue wave below, To bless the world ye snatch'd from doom, Two hundred years ago! Then to your harps—yet louder—higher— And pour your strains along, And smite again each quiv'ring wire, In all the pride of song! Shout for those godlike men of old, Who daring storm and foe, On this bless'd soil their anthem roll'd, TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO! |