Choice Specimens of American Literature, and Literary Reader Part 46

His bow, for action ready bent, And arrows, with a head of bone, Can only mean that life is spent, And not the finer essence gone.

Here still a lofty rock remains, On which the curious eye may trace, Now wasted half by wearing rains, The fancies of a ruder race.

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews, In vestments for the chase arrayed.

The hunter still the deer pursues, The hunter and the deer--a shade.

=_David Humphreys, 1783-1818._= (Manual, p. 512.)

From "The Happiness of America."

=_319._= RECOLLECTIONS OF THE WAR.

I too, perhaps, should Heaven prolong my date, The oft-repeated tale shall oft relate; Shall tell the feelings in the first alarms, Of some bold enterprise the unequalled charms; Shall tell from whom I learnt the martial art, With what high chiefs I played my early part-- With Parsons first--

Death-daring Putnam--then immortal Greene-- Then how great Was.h.i.+ngton my youth approved, In rank preferred, and as a parent loved.

With him what hours on warlike plains I spent, Beneath the shadow of th' imperial tent; With him how oft I went the nightly round Through moving hosts, or slept on tented ground; From him how oft--(nor far below the first, In high behests and confidential trust)-- From him how oft I bore the dread commands, Which destined for the fight the eager bands; With him how oft I pa.s.sed the eventful day, Bode by his side, as down the long array His awful voice the columns taught to form, To point the thunders and direct the storm.

But, thanks to Heaven! those days of blood are o'er; The trumpet's clangor, the loud cannon's roar.

No more this hand, since happier days succeed, Waves the bright blade, or reins the fiery steed.

No more for martial fame this bosom burns; Now white-robed Peace to bless a world returns; Now fostering Freedom all her bliss bestows, Unnumbered blessings for unnumbered woes.

=_Samuel J. Smith,[77] 1771-1835._=

=_320._= PEACE, BE STILL.

When, on his mission from his home in heaven, In the frail bark the Saviour deigned to sleep, The tempest rose--with headlong fury driven, The wave-tossed vessel whirled along the deep: Wild shrieked the storm amid the parting shrouds, And the vexed billows dashed the darkening clouds.

Ah! then how futile human skill and power,-- "Save us! we perish in the o'erwhelming wave!"

They cried, and found in that tremendous hour, "An eye to pity, and an arm to save."

He spoke, and lo! obedient to His will, The raging waters, and the winds were still.

And thou, poor trembler on life's stormy sea, Where dark the waves of sin and sorrow roll, To Him for refuge from the tempest flee,-- To Him, confiding, trust the sinking soul; For O, He came to calm the tempest-tossed, To seek the wandering, and to save the lost.

For thee, and such as thee, impelled by love, He left the mansions of the blessed on high; Mid sin, and pain, and grief, and fear, to move, With lingering anguish, and with shame to die.

The debt to Justice, boundless Mercy paid, For hopeless guilt, complete atonement made.

O, in return for such surpa.s.sing grace, Poor, blind, and naked, what canst thou impart?

Canst thou no offering on his altar place?

Yes, lowly mourner; give him all thy heart: That simple offering he will not disown,-- That living incense may approach his throne.

[Footnote 77: A gentleman of fortune and literary culture; a life-long resident in the country, in his native State, New Jersey.]

=_William Clifton, 1772-1790._= (Manual, p. 512.)

From lines "To Fancy."

=_321._= PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION.

Is my lonely pittance past?

Fleeting good too light to last?

Lifts my friend the latch no more?

Fancy, thou canst all restore; Thou canst, with thy airy sh.e.l.l, To a palace raise my cell.

With thee to guide my steps, I'll creep In some old haunted nook to sleep, Lulled by the dreary night-bird's scream, That flits along the wizard stream, And there, till morning 'gins appear, The tales of troubled spirits hear.

Sweet's the dawn's ambiguous light, Quiet pause 'tween day and night, When afar the mellow horn Chides the tardy gaited morn, And asleep is yet the gale On sea-beat mount, and rivered vale.

But the morn, though sweet and fair; Sweeter is when thou art there; Hymning stars successive fade, Fairies hurtle through the shade, Lovelorn flowers I weeping see, If the scene is touched by thee.

Thus through life with thee I'll glide, Happy still what'er betide, And while plodding sots complain Of ceaseless toil and slender gain, Every pa.s.sing hour shall be Worth a golden age to me.

=_Robert Treat Paine, 1773-1811._= (Manual, p. 512.)

From "The Ruling Pa.s.sion."

=_322._= THE MISER.

Next comes the miser; palsied, jealous, lean, He looks the very skeleton of Spleen!

'Mid forests drear, he haunts, in spectred gloom, Some desert abbey or some druid's tomb; Where hea.r.s.ed in earth, his occult riches lay, Fleeced from the world, and buried from the day.

With crutch in hand, he points his mineral rod, Limps to the spot, and turns the well-known sod.

While there, involved in night, he counts his store By the soft tinklings of the golden ore, He shakes with terror lest the moon should spy, And the breeze whisper, where his treasures lie.

This wretch, who, dying, would not take one pill, If, living, he must pay a doctor's bill, Still clings to life, of every joy bereft; His G.o.d is gold, and his religion theft!

And, as of yore, when modern vice was strange, Could leathern money current pa.s.s on 'change, His reptile soul, whose reasoning powers are pent Within the logic bounds of cent per cent, Would sooner coin his ears than stocks should fall, And cheat the pillory, than not cheat at all!

=_John Blair Linn,[78] 1777-1804._=