xt70zp3vt62q https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt70zp3vt62q/data/mets.xml Cutter, George Washington, 1801-1865. 1848  books b92-209-30909674 English Morgan & Overend, printers, : Cincinnati : Contact the Special Collections Research Center for information regarding rights and use of this collection. Buena Vista  : and other poems / by G.W. Cutter. text Buena Vista  : and other poems / by G.W. Cutter. 1848 2002 true xt70zp3vt62q section xt70zp3vt62q 


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- -             -,,



S T A :



     BY G. W. CUTTER.

     "The man that hth no music in himself,
     Nor is not mov'd with concord ofsweet sounds,
     Is fit for treason, stratagems and spoils-
     The motion, of his spirit are dul as night,
     And his affections dark as Erebus;
     Let no such man be trusted."-

            C INCINN -A TI:
 II    ; G A N    (s ER END. PRINTERS.
                1 848.


      Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1847,
                    BY C. W. CUTTER,

In the Clerk's office of the District Court for the District of Kentucky.



in contrast with any effort I have made they will ever shine "like a
bright jewel in an Ethiop's ear," yet so intimate is the connection be-
tween his "Remonstrance" and my reply, that the interest of the latter
would be totally lost if it were not accompanied by the pleasure which
the former must always inspire. This poem of Mr. Mackay, it will be
recollected, appeared in this country when a very different state of feel-
ing pervaded the public mind towards our mother country than that
which we contemplate with so much pleasure now; it came to us dur-
ing the agitation of the Oregon question, at a time when the bullying
and overbearing tone of the English press left us no other prospect of set-
tling this question but by the last resort of nations, and the threat of
Mr. Mackay to
                 -"    teach us such a lesson
                 As should sicken us of war,"

must be my apology for the manner in which I felt disposed to answer
his beautiful and philanthropic "Remonstrance with the Americans."

          It may be necessary further to add that the ode to the Hon-
orable Henry Clay was written and published immediately after the
close of the last Presidential election, under the influence of those strong
and abiding emotions that moment was so well calculated to inspire.
With these statements and explanations I shall ever humbly bow to the
final award of that public before whom I stand now fairly committed.

                                               G. W. CUTTER.
COVINGTON, Kentucky, Dec., 1847.

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Buena Vista                                               13
The Song of Steam                                         24
The Burning Boat                                          28
The Death of Osceola                                      33
E Pluribus Unum                                           38
La Belle Riviere                                          41
Ode to the Grande Prairie.                       4
The Fireman                                               47
The Miser                                                 51.
God and Liberty                                           55
Love's Remonstrance                                       60
The Creation of Woman .63
"Voices from the Crowd:-By Charles Mackay, Esq."  73
An Answer to a "Remonstrance with the Americans"  77
Elegy-Written in a City Church Yard . .  .81.
Wilt thou roam with me-A Ballad  . .   .88
The Press                      .         .91
The White Chief                                           96
The Land of the West              .        .113
To                        ..118
Listen!                    .          .121
Ode to the Deity                .         .125
To Mr. Atwood, on his Portrait of General Taylor  129
Henry Clay                                               133.
To the Portrait of Washington ..                         136.
The Star of the Legion of Honor .139
An Impromptu                     .143
I do not know Thee                .144
A Letter to My Little Step-daughter .147
Despair                       .150
Stanzas                       .154
Napoleon's Request                .156.
Written for an Album  .158
The Reqnest                      .160
To                           .162
"In Ccelo Quie        .                                 164
Farewell                                                 166

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Buena Vista! thou hast smil'd
  Like the shores of orient waves,
But now thou art a dreary wild
  A fearful waste of graves.
All blackened is the verdure there,
  Where fell the purple rain;
The vulture sniffs the tainted air-
  The wolf howls o'er the slain.

And where thy hacienda rose,
  Amidst the linden leaves,
The weary pilgrimn sought repose
  Beneath its friendly eaves;
Where the aloe and the orange bloom
  With fragrance fill'd the air,
The willow and the cypress gloom
  Now wave in silence there.


No more that hospitable grove
  In all thy vale--is found;
No voice, but of the mouriling dove,
  Now breaks the silence round.
The very roof-tree of the hall
  Is level with the hearth;
The fiagments of thy ehapel wvall
  Are strewved upon the earth.

We saw thee when the morning spread
  11er lullrple wings on bigrh-
Beheld, at dawn, thy mountains dread,
  Like clouds against the sky;
And we mark'd thy fairy metdows,
  And thy streamnlet's silver sheen,
Beneath their lofty shadows,
  Along the dark ravine.

But ah! we saw another hue
  Spread o'er thy lordly dell,
When cannon shook thy sky of blue,
  And war's dread liPhtning fell;
When darkness clothed the morning ray,
  And dimm'd thy mountains high-
When the fire that kindled up the day
  Wrent out upon the sky.


Upon their arms that weary night
  Our soldiery had lain,
And' many dream'd those visions bright
  They ne'er shall dream again:
Of maidens of the snowy brow,-
  Of sisters, pale with care,,
Of vives, who for our safety bow
  Their loveliness in prayer,-

Of venerable sires, who stand
  Beneath the cares of state,-
The mothers of our native land,
  Our children's artless prate:
Of quiet vales, of sacred domes,
  Far o'er the heaving sea;
The cheerful hearts, the happy homes,
  Our own proud land, of thee!

But sudden on each drowsy ear,
  O'er thy dark caverns roll'd
The notes of death to craven fear-
  The music of the bold.
The foe! the foe! along thy pass,
  I1is locust horde appears;
We saw the sheen of his cuirass-
  The glitter of his spears.


As stars that stud the milky way,
  His glittering lances shine;
And the banners of his long array
  Were as the sun's decline.
The sky grew darker o'er them,
  And murmured low and dread;
And the solid earth before them,
  Was clouds beneath their tread.

We gazed upon the Iris streams,
  The stars, whose diamond ray
Upon our union banner beams-
  Shall they come down to-day
No! by our country's sacred call-
  No! by thy graceful waves-
No! no! thy stars shall never fall
  But on our shroudless graves!

Then with one fearful wild hurrah,
  The solemn hills rang out;
And Echo, from her caves afar,
  Sent back the startling shout:
The foe recoiled, his glittering ranks
  O'er all that -vale were bright,
Like a stream that floods its lofty banks
  Beneath the starry night.


They halt, and forth on foaming steeds,
  And banners flowing white;
St. Anna's herald forward speeds
  A parley to invite:
Our General, in his meekness
  And mercy, hath designed,
In pity of your weakness,
I To treat you very kind.

He knows how feeble is your strength
  How poorly arm'd ye are;
'Tis certain ye must yield at length,
  Or madly peiish there!
To end at once your foolish hopes,
  To make this statement clear,
Know that three thousand chosen troops
  Are posted in your rear.

He hath four and twenty cannon here,
  And twenty thousand men,
To pour the lava tide of war
  Along this narrow glen:
Then yield ye, prisoners of his grace,
  And spare the loss of blood,
Or he 'l sweep you from before his face,
  As foam before the flood."


"Here, May, go thou invite him,
   Ye need not tarry long;
 Tell him that I would fight him
   Were he fifty times as strong."
 Thus answered Rough and Ready-
   One hurrah rent the sky
 And our ranks grew firm and steady,
   Beneath his eagle eye.

 Then came their cymbal's ringing clashh-
    Shrill fife and rolling drum-
 The opening cannon's thunder-crash,
    The wildly rending bomb;
 Up rose their sable flag, and cast
    Its stain upon the breeze,
 Like that which from the rover's mast
    Sheds terror o'er the seas.

 We saw it, and we inly swore
    By Him in whom we trust,
 Tho' red with our last drop of gore,
    To trail it in the dust.
 How well that promise has been kept,
    Ye-who would seek to know-
 Go ask the kindred who have wept
    O'er trampled Mexico.


The trumpet sounds, the foe moves on
  Along the mountain crag,
Then burst thy earthquake, Washington,
  And roar'd thy thunder, Bragg;
Then swift thy wheeLs, O'Brien, came
  Along the deep defile-
And soon before their lightning flame
  Lay many a ghastly pile.

Then Lincoln, of the fiery glance,
  Bestrode his matchless steed-
And May, who ever fells a lance
  As lightning fells a reed;
And veteran Wool, the heady fight
  As nobly did sustain,
As if the glow of Queenstowm height
  Had fired his soul again.

There Marshall urged his foaming steeds,
  With spur and flowing rein-
And many a lancer flying bleeds,
  And many bite the plain;
And there brave Mississippi stands
  Amidst the sheeted flame,
And rapid fall their ruthless bands,
  Before her deadly aim.


The cloud, that threatened in the sky,
  Has burst upon the plain-
And channels, that so late were dry,
  Are swollen, but not with rain;
Young Indiana holds the height,
  Brave Illinois has charged,
And Arkansas within the fight
  Her glory has enlarged.

Still downward from the dizzy height,
  Their gleaming masses reel,
A Niagara in resistless might-
  An avalanche of steel;
Still on, their mighty columns move,
  The plain is covered o'er-
The sky is black with clouds above,
  The earth is red with gore.

Then gleam'd aloft thy polished brand,
  Oh, loved and lost McKee!-
And we heard thy steady clear command
"Kentucky, charge with me!"
As o'er the crackling forest spread
  Volcanic fires of old,
With flaming steel and bounding tread,
  Our ranks upon them roll'd.


Then deeper still the cannon peal'd,
   And flamed the musketry;
And redder blushed the crimson field,
   And darker grew the day;
But soon before our fiery check,
   The iron storm roll'd back-
And left, Oh God! a mournful wreck
  Along its fearful track!

With brows in death more gloomy,
  Amidst the sanguine dews,
Lay the guards of Montezuma,
  And the knight's of Vera Cruz;
And many a cloven helmet,
  And shattered spear around-
And drum and crimson bayonet,
  And banner strew'd the ground.

Still our standard in its glory
  Waved o'er the sulpJhur storm,
But 'neath it, stiff and gory-,
  Lay many a. noble form.
Mingled in death's cold embrace;
  There fiiend and foe appears,
While o'er them bends full many a face
  That streams with burning tears.


Oh, God! who could but weep to see,
  On the red and trampled lawn,
Thy form, impetuous brave McKee,
  And thine heroic Vaughn-
As gathered up our little bands,
  Their comrades where they fell,
And bore along, with gory hands,
  A Lincoln, Harden, Yell!

And, oh! what language can impart
  The sorrow of that day
The grief that wrung each manly heart,
  For thee, young Henry Clay;
The memory of that glorious strife
  Will live in future years,
To us the darkest page of life
  The deepest source of tears.

We saw thee, when the countless horde
  Closed round thee from afir,
And through the smoke thy gleaming sword
  Became our guiding star;
We followed till before their might
  Our feeble ranks were riven,
Even then thy face was beaming bright
  As if 't were lit from heaven.


We saw their steel, above thy head,
  Flash like a radiant crown,
And, like a bolt by lightning sped,
  Thy sabre cleave them down;
And where the fiery tempest pour'd,
  Thy hand still waved us on;
There still thy trumpet voice was heard-
  There still thy sword was drawn.

And when the shout of victory
  Rang in thy warrior ears,
'T was a triumph to the foe to see
  Thy blood upon their spears;
But a mournful shade came back again
  Upon their features wild
To see the gory heaps of slain
  Thy single arm had piled.

Buena Vista! when the sun
  Set o'er the battle cloud,
The sulphur vapors, dark and dun,
  Lay o'er thee like a shroud;
And the wounded and the dying
  O'er all thy hills were strewn,
And the red path of the flying
  Was lighted by the moon.



Harness me down with your iron bands,
  Be sure of your curb and rein;
For I scorn the power of your puny hands,
  As the tempest scorns a chain.
How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight,
  For many a countless hour,
At the childish boast of human might,
  And the pride of human power.

When I saw an army upon the land,
  A navy upon the seas,
Creeping along, a snail-like band,
  Or waiting the wayward breeze;
When I marked the peasant faintly reel
  With the toil which he daily bore,
As he feebly turned the tardy wheel,
  Or tugged at the weary oar; -


When I measured the panting courser's speed,
  The flight of the courier dove--
As they bore the law a king decreed,
  Or the lines of impatient love-
I could not but think how the world would feel,
  As these were outstripp'd afar,
When I should be bound to the rushing keel,
  Or chained to the flying car.

Ha! ha! ha! they found me at last,
  They invited me forth at length,
-And I rushed to my throne with a thunder-blast,
  And laughed in my iron strength.
Oh! then ye saw a wondrous change
  On the earth and the ocean wide,
Where now my fiery armies range,
  Nor wait for wind or tide.

Hurrah! hurrah! the waters o'er,
  The mountains steep decline,
Time-space-have yielded to my power-
  The world! the world is mine!
The rivers, the sun hath earliest blest,
  Or those where his beams decline;
The giant streams of the queenly west,
  Or the orient floods divine:


The ocean pales where'er I sweep,
  To hear my strength rejoice,
And the monsters of the briny deep
  Cower, trembling, at my voice.
I carry the wealth and the lord of earth,
  The thoughts of his god-like mind,
The wind lags after my flying forth,
  The lightning is left behind.

In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine,
  My tireless arm doth play,
Where the rocks never saw the sun decline,
  Or the dawn of the glorious day.
I bring earth's glittering jewels up
  From the hidden cave below,
And I make the fountain's granite cup
  With a crystal gush o'erflow.

I blow the bellows, I forge the steel,
  In all the shops of trade;
I hammer the ore and turn the wheel,
  Where my arms of strength are made;
I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint;
  I carry, I spin, I weave;
And all my doings I put into print,
  On every Saturday eve.


I've no muscle to weary, no breast to decay,
  No bones to be "laid on the shelf,"
And soon I intend you may "go and play,"
  While I manage this world myself.
But harness me down with your iron bands,
  Be sure of your curb and rein;
For I scorn the strength of your puny hands,
  As the tempest scorns a chain.



At midnight, o'er the lonely stream
  Came a sound of rushing keels;
The rapid shocks of exploding steam,
  And the storm of the paddle wheels,
As two huge boats o'er the waters rave,
  'Mid their furnaces' ruddy glare
Like island cities o'er the wave,
  Or castles in the air.

And swift as the comet's fiery track
  O'er the shadowy realms of space,
They hurled the eddying currents back,
  In their mighty and fearful race;
On, on, like the lightning's glare, they sweep,
  While each grand and gorgeous form
Is imaged on the affighted deep,
  Like the clouds of the sunset storm.


The steed, who at morn the air outflies,
  E'er night becomes oppress'd;
And the eagle from the upper skies
  Stoops down to the earth for rest.
But what is a thousand miles in length-
  Think ye that space can tire
Their thundering engine's iron strength-
     Their breath of crackling fire

On, on, with the nameless speed of light,
  And a voice like a mighty wind-
The path, before them calm and bright,
  Is crushed to foam behind;
The wild-fowl, startled from the shore,
  Flew screaming through the sky;
And the woodman sprang to his cabin door,
  As they swept like a tempest by.

Heaven guard them in their fearful strife,
  For their's is a priceless freight;
A thousand forms of human life
  The humble and the great;
There, angel beauty, rock'd to rest,
  Is slumbering in her berth,
As calm as if her fair limbs press'd
  The couch by her father's hearth.


The mother, won from her fond alarms,
  Her vigil has ceased to keep-
With her infant nestling in her arms,
  Is smiling in her sleep;
Stern manhood, too, with cares oppress'd-
  An exile doom'd to roam-
Is bless'd in this balimy hour of rest,
  For he dreams of his distant home.

There wealth, at ease on heaps of down,
  In sheets of lawn is roll'd-
In visions of state and high renown-
  And piles of sparkling gold;
And there the trader's wasted frame
  On the dank cold deck is lain,
As home with joy, through storm and flame,
  He hastes with his scanty gain.

He's dreaming perchance of his peaceful cot,
  And his fields beside the burn-
Where the partner of his humble lot
  Will smile at his return.
On-swift as the dusky condor's flight-
  Those barks like meteors flew;
While echoed the vault of the starless night,
  With the cheers of each rival crew.


By heaven! there's not a sight more fair,
  Than they thus careering on;
But ah! what means that awful glare-
  It cannot be the dawn;
The vesper's sable wings are furl'd
  O'er the day-god's fiery car;
The orient smiles not on the world
  'T is night, without a star.

But list! a wild explosion loud-
  And flames on flames are driven
High as the mountain's lava shroud,
  When it fires the clouds of heaven;
A cry through the sable welkin floats,
  Of death and anguish dire,
And the proudest of those gallant boats,
  Is a floating funeral pyre!

Like a war steed in the battle flame,
  She paws the hissing tide;
No reins her frantic course to tame,
  No living hand to guide;
But who shall paint the effort made-
  The distant shore to gain
How gentle woman shriek'd for aid
  And shriek'd, oh God! in vain!


How infancy and helpless years
  Leap'd from the glowing deck
While fainting crowds o'ercome with fears,
  Go down with the burning wreck;
How, when the morning's ray of gold
  ]llui'd that mighty river,
It o'er their shroudless corses roll'd-
  As it shall roll for ever!



'T is winter-but a southern sky
   A southern sun illumes,
Where soft the tropic zephyrs sigh,
   And bright the orange blooms;
The city's joyous shade is given
   Back from the glossy stream,
As gorgeous as the clouds of heaven,
   And tranquil as a dream.

But, list! from out yon distant tower,
  Like night-winds fitful flow-
Within some lone and leafless bower,
   The captives wail of wo!
Ay! from those dark embattled cells,
  O'er the water's sunny sweep,
Ev'n now the voice of sorrow swells
  From those who rarely weep.


Yes, from a wild and eagle race,
  Free as the ocean's foam;
The wilderness their dwelling place
  The mountains are their home.
With souls that torture may not move,
  With lips that smile at fate,
Undying is their changeless love,
  And quenchless is their hate.

The 've gathered 'round a warrior's bier,
  Those forest children now,
And gently put the raven hair
  From off his marble brow.
AhI fondly do they hope to trace
  Some memory lingering there-
Some line upon that glorious face,
  That death still deigns to spare.

Oh God! how beautiful is death,
  With features of such mould;
To those who watch the fleeting breath,
  How fair, but oh, how cold!
Is this the lip, whose lightest word
  Roused like the bugle's cry
Is this the eye, whose glance hath fir'd
  The ranks of victory


Is this the same, this gentle form,
  That late so glorious tower'd;
The giant of the battle storm,
  That o'er his country lower'd;
The hand that, in the red array,
  So fearfully hath dealt
The lightning of the battle fray,
  That shiver'd armies felt

No solemn notes of martial wo-
  No forming army's hum-
No half-furl'd banner's -weeping flow-
  No roll of muffled drum-
No minute gun's lone sobbing tone
  O'er tower and bastion hurl'd,
As erst when to the sky hath flown
  The war-gods of the world.

'T is well-for what hath pomp, or power,
  War's crimson panoply,
Or science, earth's almighty dower,
  Wherewith to honor thee
Give these to men of Christian birth,
  Who, for such hollow things,
With Christian blood deluge the earth,
  To kings and slaves of kings.


'T is well-for in his glorious name,
  All other names grow dim;
Then what is form or trophied fame-
  Oh, what are they to him
Enough-to know at freedom's call
  He bled at every vein
Then pined within a prison wall,
  And shrank beneath a chain.

But listen to a people's cry,
  You've wrong'd for many a year;
No more let interest shroud your eye,
  Or avarice close your ear.
From many a mountain altar,
  It swells on every breeze;
Oh! let your steel'd hearts falter
  To accents such as these.

Did we not own this glorious land,
  Each mountain, lake, and river
Were they not from thy sacred hand,
  Our heritage forever
Where tombs arise, and harvest waves,
  Our childhood used to stray;
We scarce can find our fathers' graves-
  Our fathers-where are they


Like snow beneath thy fiery glance
  Like dew in thy garment's ray
Like bubbles that o'er the ocean dance-
  Our tribes are swept away!
Father of Heaven! We faint-we fall,
  Like leaves on some lonely flood;
And the earth beneath our conquerors' hall
  Still reeks with thy children's blood!



           E PLURIBUS UNUIM.

Tho' many and bright are the stars that appear
  In that flag, by our country unfurl'd-
And the stripes that are swelling in majesty there,
  Like a rainbow adorning the world,-
Their light is unsullied, as those in the sky,
  By a deed that our fathers have done-
And they 're leagued in as true and as holy a tie
  In their motto of " MANY IN ONE."

From the hour when those patriots fearlessly flung
  That banner of star-light abroad,
Ever true to themselves, to that motto they clung-
  As they clung to the promise of God;
By the bayonet trac'd at the midnight of war,
  On the fields where our glory was won;
Oh! perish the heart or the hand that would mar
  Our motto of " MANY iN ONE."


Mlid the smoke of the contest-the cannon's deep roar,
  How oft it has gathered renown;
While those stars were reflected in rivers of gore,
  Where the cross and the lion went down;
And tho' few were their lights in the gloom of that hour,
  Yet the hearts that were striking below
Had God for their bulwark, and truth for their power,
  And they stopp'd not to number the foe.

From where our green mountain tops blend with the sky,
  And the giant St. Lawrence is rolled,
To the waves where the balmy Hlesperides lie,
  Like the dream of some prophet of old:
They conquered-and dying bequeathed to our care
  Not this boundless dominion alone-
But that banner, whose loveliness hallows the air,
  And their motto of "1iANY IN oNE."

We are many in one while there glitters a star
  In the blue of the heavens above;
And tyrants shall quail, 'mid their dungeons afar,
  When they gaze on that motto of love.
It shall gleam o'er the sea, 'mid the bolts of the storm-
  Over tempest, and battle, and wreck;
And flame where our guns with their thunder grow warm,
  'Neath the blood on the slippery deck.


The oppress'd of the earth, to that standard shall fly,
   Wherever its folds shall be spread-
And the exile shall feel 't is his own native sky,
   Where its stars shall float over his head:
And those stars shall increase till the fulness of time
   Its millions of cycles has run
Till the world shall have welcom'd its mission sublime,
   And the nations of earth shall be one.

Tho' the old Alleghany may tower to heaven,
  And the Father of Waters divide-
The links of our destiny cannot be riven
  While the truth of those words shall abide.
Then, oh! let them glow on each helmet and brand-
  Tho' our blood, like our rivers, should run;
Divide as we may in our own native land-
  To the rest of the world we are one.

Then up with our flag-let it stream on the air-
  Tho' our fathers are cold in their graves;
They had hands that could strike-they had souls that
         could dare,
  And their sons were not born to be slaves.
Up, up with that banner-where'er it may call,
  Our millions shall rally around;
And a nation of freemen that moment shall fall,
  When its stars shall be trailed on the ground.




Oh, name not the Elbe or the lordly Rhine-
  The rivers of eastern lands,
That roll 'neath the shade of the purple vine,
  Or ripple o'er diamond sands:

Where the Talipat tree and the Banyans grow,
  By the Ganges' fiery swell-
The Pagoda shores of the Ifohougho-
Or the " banks of the blue Moselle."

Tho' sacred the waves of the ancient Nile-
  The breast of the dreamy Po;
Where the skies ever wear the loveliest smile-
  The earth the sunniest glow.


Tho' grand and solemn their regal pace-
  They are not half so dear
To this heart, as the sweet and modest grace
  Of our own La Belle Riviere.

How peaceful it flows in its lovely strength-
  Imbosoming fairy isles;
That each, like a paradise, studs its length
  For more than a thousand miles.

And, oh, how silent its queenly tide,
  Fades by its pictured shore-
Save where its playful wavelets glide
  O'er the feet of the sycamore:

And when the steamboat's wondrous form,
  Like a god on his high behest-
With the hues of the rainbow-the wings of the storm
  Evanishes over its breast.

When touched by the moon's pale silver light,
  Its beauty can ne'er be told
Or when, like a mirror, it dazzles the sight,
  All burnished with solar gold.

Stout hearts-strong hands-our river hath-
  Our own- our country's pride;



And merry as its joyous path
  Are the noble barks they guide.

In the homes that rise o'er its sunny slopes,
  Or peep from its quiet dells,
Are forms that would rival the antelope's-
  Are eyes like the dear gazelle's.

The Scheldt, the Thames, the gushing Rhone-
  The Seine, the Guadalquiver-
And Tagus, are all very well, I own-
  But not La Belle Riviere.



   I've stray'd on the ocean's shore alone,
     When the sun was faint and low;
   I've sat on Jura's awful throne,
     And gazed o'er the world below.

   In the voiceless halls of other lands,
     My pilgrim feet I've placed;
   And with our own red, tameless bands,
     Our pathless forests trae'd.

   And oft, amidst a living space,
     A stranger I have stood,
   And sighed for one familiar face,
     In a countless multitude.


I've watched Niagara's crystal foam,
  At the solemn hush of even';
And gazed upon sepulchred Rome,
  When the stars were high in heaven.

But oh, until this lonely hour,
  Whate'er my spirit's mood,
I ne'er have felt such sadd'ning power-
  Such boundless solitude.

There's life in ocean's heaving breast,
  And music in the roar,
Where waves receding leave their crest
  Of foam upon the shore.

There's language in the forest leaves,
  And many a gilded plume,
And sprightly form of life, relieves
  Its silence and its gloom.

And when the thoughtful pilgrim strays
  Through mouldering piles of art,
The shadowy forms of other days
  Will throng around his heart.


There's music in the desert wide,
  And in the mountain air;
There's rapture in the rushing tide;
  For-God himself is there.

But thou art ever calm and bright,
  Tho' tempests o'er thee rave:
A broad expanse of bloom and light
  A sea without a wave.


               THE FIREMAN.

  There is stern pleasure in the shock of war-
The wheeling squadron and the bayonet's jar;
When martial lines their gleaming fronts enlarge,
And the earth reels beneath their fiery charge-
When battle smoke lowers darkly o'er the land,
Where bleeding freedom makes her firmest stand.
Our flag of heaven, with burning bars shall glow,
And flash its starry terrors on the foe;
The glittering sabre and the dancing plume,
Shall charm the icy terrors of the tomb-
The musket's flame-the rocket's lurid glare,
And culv'rin bursting on the midnight air-
The trumpet's clangor, and the drum's deep roll,
And booming cannons fire the warrior's soul;
To know he struggles in a holy cause-
For God-his country-liberty and laws;


To see the foe's thinn'd ranks in terror fly
To hear from gory lips, the shout of victory;
For freedom's realm-the freest 'neath the sky-
Our own dear native land-oh! it were joy to die!

  But the poor fireman, in the direst hour,
Is doomed to combat a more fearful power,
Without the inspiration he would feel
'Midst banner'd hosts and gleaming ranks of steel;
When fiery columns o'er our homes arise,
With their red horror streaming in the skies
Too oft, alas, he sinks amidst the flame!
Unmarked by history and unknown to fame;
For the dire foe with whom he battles there
A fallen hero ne'er was known to spare;
His tameless warfare will no pris'ners save
And to the vanquished e'en denies a grave.

  Oh, blessed hour-oh, precious time of rest-
Dear to the weary and the mourning breast;
The winds are hushed-the city hath no sound
Save the lone clock, measuring life's speedy round-
Or the blithe cricket singing in the dark,
Where the swept hearth emits no cheering spark.
The fireman sleeps. And in his sunny dream,
A cottage stands beside a purling stream-


A group of pleasure and becoming mirth;
His babes-his partner-cheer its social hearth-
While trees of glowing fruit, all fenced about,
And fields of ripening corn, are seen without;
His horse-his dog-sleep 'neath the sunny wall,
And a blue sky is bending o'er them all.

  But hark! There bursts upon his startled ear
A cry that fills the very soul with fear-
Swelling each instant louder, clearer, higher,
Till earth and hezven reverberate-fire! fire!
He wakes to see the cinders pour on high
Like a volcano bursting in the sky
While ringing bells confirm his waking fear,
And the hoarse trumpet thunders in his ear.
No time has he for parley or delay-
His hat-his ready coat-away, away,
Springs from the threshold of his quiet home-
Mounts o'er the ladder to the blazing dome,
Where soon he stands upon the dizzy height,
And wields the torrent with a giant's might-
Or works the engine in the icy street,
Amidst the rushing storm, the driving sleet;
Till the sharp frost unnerves his willing hands,
Or piercing winds have frozen him where he stands.



A cry within those fiery walls is heard!
What aid, alas, can human strength afford
FLames are devouring each devoted room,
Fierce as the living Ilindoo's burning tomb.
A suffocating darkness loads the air-
The ceiling glows, and crackling flames the stair!
No time for thought! Amidst the fire he leaps!
His daring feet have pass'd the scorching steps-
And, blind and breathless, bursts the yielding door-
Springs to his prize o'er the consuming floor;
Then turning finds, too late! oh God! too late!
He has but come to share the suflerer's fate!
One hideous glare that instant shoots around
And the whole pile lies smouldering on the ground!
They sink together in one common grave-
The feeble there, and he who came to save.


              THE MISER.

An old man sat by a fireless hearth,
  Thougr the night was cold and chill,
And mournfully over the frozen earth
  The wind sobbed low and shrill.
His locks were gray,