A MEDITATION ON RHODE ISLAND COAL. Decolor, obscuris, vilis, non ille repexam CLAUDIAN. I SAT beside the glowing grate, fresh heaped And last I thought of that fair isle which sent I saw it once, with heat and travel spent, way; And scratched by dwarf-oaks in the hollow And hotter grew the air, and hollower grew The deep-worn path, and horror-struck, I thought, 210 ON RHODE ISLAND COAL. I looked to see it dive in earth outright; I looked-but saw a far more welcome sight. Like a soft mist upon the evening shore, The barley was just reaped--its heavy sheaves The Briton hewed their ancient groves away. I saw where fountains freshened the green land, Went wandering all that fertile region o'er Rogue's Island once--but, when the rogues were dead, Beautiful island! then it only seemed A lovely stranger-it has grown a friend. I gazed on its smooth slopes, but never dreamed To warm a poet's room and boil his tea. ON RHODE ISLAND COAL. Dark anthracite ! that reddenest on my hearth, Thou in those island mines didst slumber long; But now thou art come forth to move the earth, And put to shame the men that mean thee wrong. Thou shalt be coals of fire to those that hate thee, And warm the shins of all that under-rate thee. Yea, they did wrong thee foully-they who mocked And grew profane-and swore, in bitter scorn, Yet is thy greatness nigh. I pause to state, And I have seen-not many months ago— An eastern Governor in chapeau bras And military coat, a glorious show! Ride forth to visit the reviews, and ah! How oft he smiled and bowed to Jonathan! How many hands were shook and votes were won! 'Twas a great Governor-thou too shalt be Great in thy turn-and wide shall spread thy fame, 211 212 ON RHODE ISLAND COAL. And swiftly; farthest Maine shall hear of thee, And cold New-Brunswick gladden at thy name, And, faintly through its sleets, the weeping isle That sends the Boston folks their cod shall smile. For thou shalt forge vast railways, and shalt heat Thou shalt make mighty engines swim the sea, The moving soul of many a spinning-jenny, Then we will laugh at winter when we hear The grim old churl about our dwellings rave: Thou, from that "ruler of the inverted year," Shalt pluck the knotty sceptre Cowper gave, And pull him from his sledge, and drag him in, And melt the icicles from off his chin. AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE OF HIS FATHERS. It is the spot I came to seek,- Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, It is the spot,-I know it well— For here the upland bank sends out The meadows smooth and wide, The plains, that, toward the southern sky, A white man, gazing on the scene, I like it not-I would the plain |