In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim To mix forever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain Shalt thou retire alone -- nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep;· So shalt thou rest and what if thou withdraw The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. W. C. Bryant CCIX. THE AFRICAN CHIEF. CHAINED in the market-place he stood, A man of giant frame, Amid the gathering multitude That shrunk to hear his name, All stern of look and strong of limb, His dark eye on the ground; And silently they gazed on him, As on a lion bound. Vainly, but well, that chief had fought- Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, The scars his dark broad bosom wore At once his eye grew wild: He struggled fiercely with his chain, ONC Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encounter'd in the battle-cloud. Ah! never shall the land forget How gush'd the life-blood of her brave, Gush'd, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save. Now all is calm, and fresh, and still; And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine, are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry: Oh, be it never heard again! Soon rested those who fought; but thou A friendless warfare! lingering long Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown-yet faint thou not, Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, Die full of hope and manly trust Like those who fell in battle here. |