Praise to the bard! his words are driven, Praise to the man! a nation stood And still, as on his funeral day, Men stand his cold earth-couch around, And consecrated ground it is, The last, the hallow'd home of one Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines, Sages, with Wisdom's garland wreathed, Crown'd kings, and mitred priests of power, And warriors with their bright swords sheathed, The mightiest of the hour; And lowlier names, whose humble home Are there-o'er wave and mountain come, Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have press'd All ask the cottage of his birth, Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, They linger by the Doon's low trees, But what to them the sculptor's art, RED JACKET. A chief of the Indian Tribes, the Tuscaroras. COOPER, whose name is with his country's woven, And throned her in the Senate Hall of Nations, And beautiful as its green world of thought. And faithful to the Act of Congress, quoted That all our week is happy as a Sunday M And, furthermore, in fifty years or sooner, If he were with me, King of Tuscarora, In all its medall'd, fringed, and beaded glory, Its brow, half martial and half diplomatic, For thou wert monarch born. Tradition's pages Thy name is princely. Though no poet's magic Yet it is music in the language spoken Thy garb-though Austria's bosom-star would frighten That medal pale, as diamonds the dark mine, And George the Fourth wore, in the dance at Brighton, A more becoming evening dress than thine; Yet 'tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather, Is strength a monarch's merit? (like a whaler's) Is eloquence? Her spell is thine that reaches Is beauty? Thine has with thy youth departed, But the love-legends of thy manhood's years, And she who perish'd, young and broken-hearted, Are-but I rhyme for smiles, and not for tears. The monarch mind-the mystery of commanding, The godlike power, the art Napoleon, Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, banding The hearts of millions till they move as one; Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded The road to death as to a festival; And minstrel minds, without a blush, have shrouded Who will believe-not I-for in deceiving I cannot spare the luxury of believing That all things beautiful are what they seem. Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing Would, like the patriarch's, sooth a dying hour; With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlight bower; With look, like patient Job's, eschewing evil; That in thy veins there springs a poison fountain, Deadlier than that which bathes the Upas-tree; And in thy wrath, a nursing Cat o' Mountain Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee? And underneath that face like summer's ocean's, Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear, Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions, Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow-all, save fear, Love-for thy land, as if she were thy daughter, Her pipes in peace, her tomahawk in wars; Hatred of missionaries and cold water; Pride-in thy rifle trophies and thy scars; Hope that thy wrongs will be by the Great Spirit HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. THE LIGHT OF STARS. THE night is come, but not too soon; All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? |