Yet it is music in the language spoken Of thine own land; and on her herald roll; As bravely fought for, and as proud a token As Coeur de Lion's of a warrior's soul. Thy garb-though Austria's bosom-star would frighten Yet 'tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather, Is strength a monarch's merit, like a whaler's? Is beauty?-Thine has with thy youth departed; Is eloquence?-Her spell is thine that reaches The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport; And there's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches, The secret of their mastery-they are short. The monarch mind, the mystery of commanding, Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded And minstrels, at their sepulchres, have shrouded Who will believe? Not I-for in deceiving That all things beautiful are what they seem; Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing Would, like the Patriarch's, soothe a dying hour, With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing, As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlit bower; With look, like patient Job's, eschewing evil; Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil That e'er clenched fingers in a captive's hair! That in thy breast there springs a poison fountain, Deadlier than that where 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 ocean's, Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow-all save fear. Love for thy land, as if she were thy daughter, Pride-in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars; Hope that thy wrongs may be, by the Great Spirit, Remembered and revenged when thou art gone; Sorrow-that none are left thee to inherit Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne! still her gray rocks tower above the sea That crouches at their feet, a conquered wave; 'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree, Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave; Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold and free, And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave; And where none kneel, save when to heaven they pray, Nor even then, unless in their own way. Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong, (If red, they might to Draco's code belong ;) A vestal state, which power could not subdue, Nor promise win-like her own eagle's nest, Sacred-the San Marino of the West. A justice of the peace, for the time being, In price or creed, dismiss him without fear; They have a natural talent for foreseeing And knowing all things; and should Park appear From his long tour in Africa, to show The Niger's source, they'd meet him with-"We know." They love their land, because it is their own, And scorn to give aught other reason why; Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, And think it kindness to his majesty; A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none. Such are they nurtured, such they live and die: ́All-but a few apostates, who are meddling With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling; Or wandering through the southern countries, teaching Gallant and godly, making love and preaching, A decent living. The Virginians look Upon them with as favourable eyes But these are but their outcasts. View them near At home, where all their worth and pride is placed; And there their hospitable fires burn clear, And there the lowliest farmhouse hearth is graced With manly hearts, in piety sincere, Faithful in love, in honour stern and chaste, In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave. And minds have there been nurtured, whose control Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul, Names that adorn and dignify the scroll, Whose leaves contain their country's history, And tales of love and war-listen to one Of the Green-Mountaincer-the Stark of Bennington. When on that field his band the Hessians fought, Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring, Of Florence and the Arno; yet the wing Of life's best angel, Health, is on her gales Through sun and snow; and in the autumn time Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime. |