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There's firmness in its even light,

That augurs of a breast sincere ; And, oh! take watch how ye excite

That firmness till it yield a tear. Some bosoms give an easy sigh,

Some drops of grief will freely start; But that which sears the quiet eye

Hath its deep fountain in the heart.


Ar, scatter me well, 'tis a moist spring day,
Wide and far be the hempseed sown,
And bravely I'll stand on the autumn land

When the rains have dropp'd and the winds
have blown.

With my fine threads curl'd in serpent length, And the fire-wrought chain, and the lion's thick


Shall be rivall'd by me in mighty strength. I have many a place in the busy world,

Of triumph and fear, of sorrow and joy; I carry the freeman's flag unfurl'd,

I am link'd to childhood's darling toy. Then scatter me wide, and hackle me well, For a varied tale can the hempseed tell.

The sunshine falls on a new-made grave?

The funeral train is long and sad;
The poor man has come to the happiest home,
And easiest pillow he ever had.

I shall be there to lower him down
Gently into his narrow bed;

Man shall carefully gather me up,

His hand shall rule and my form shall change, I shall be there, the work to share,
Not as a mate for the purple of state,

To guard his feet, and cradle his head.
I may be seen on the hillock green,

Nor into aught that is "rich and strange."
But I will come forth all woven and spun,

Flung aside with the bleaching skull,
While the earth is thrown with worm and bone,

Bravely I swing in the anchor ring

Where the foot of the proud man cometh not,
Where the dolphin leaps, and the sea-weed creeps
O'er the rifted sand and coral grot.
Down, down below I merrily go

When the huge ship takes her rocking rest;
The waters may chafe, but she dwelleth as safe
As the young bird in its woodland nest.
I wreathe the spars of that same fair ship

Where the gallant sea-hearts cling about,
Springing aloft with a song on the lip,

Putting their faith in the cordage stout.

I am true when the blast sways the giant mast,
Straining and stretch'd in a nor❜west gale;

I abide with the bark, in the day and the dark,
Lashing the hammock and reefing the sail.
Oh, the billows and I right fairly cope,
And the wild tide is stemm'd by the cable rope.

Oh, a terrible thing does the hempseed seem
Twixt the hollow floor and stout cross-beam?

Sons of evil, bad and bold,

Madly ye live and little ye reck,
Till I am noosed in a coiling fold

Ready to hug your felon neck.
The yarn is smooth and the knot is sure,
I will be firm to the task I take;
Thinly they twine the halter line,

Yet when does the halter hitch or break?
My leaves are light and my flowers are bright
Fit for an infant hand to clasp;

But what think ye of me, 'neath the gibbet-tree,
Dangling high in the hangman's grasp?

The people rejoice, the banners are spread;
There is frolic and feasting in cottage and hall;
The festival shout is echoing out

From trellis'd porch and gothic wall;
Merry souls hie to the belfry tower,


Gaily they laugh when I am found,
And rare music they make, till the quick peals
The ivy that wraps the turret round:
The hempseed lives with the old church bell,
And helpeth the holiday ding-dong-dell.

Till the sexton has done, and the grave is full. Back to the gloomy vault I'm borne,

Leaving coffin and nail to crumble and rust, There I am laid with the mattock and spade,

Moisten'd with tears and clogg'd with dust: Oh, the hempseed cometh in doleful shape, With the mourner's cloak and sable crape.

Harvest shall spread with its glittering wheat;

The barn shall be open'd, the stack shall be piled; Ye shall see the ripe grain shining out from the wain, And the berry-stain'd arms of the gleaner-child. Heap on, heap on, till the wagon-ribs creak,

Let the sheaves go towering to the sky, Up with the shock till the broad wheels rock, Fear not to carry the rich freight high. For I will infold the tottering gold,

I will fetter the rolling load;

Not an ear shall escape my binding hold,
On the furrow'd field or jolting road:
Oh, the hempseed hath a fair place to fill,
With the harvest band on the corn-crown'd hill.

My threads are set in the heaving net,
Out with the fisher-boy far at sea,

While he whistles a tune to the lonely moon,
And trusts for his morrow's bread to me.
Toiling away through the dry summer-day,

Round and round I steadily twist,

And bring from the cell of the deep old well
What is rarely prized but sorely miss'd.
In the whirling swing-in the peg-top string,
There am I, a worshipp'd slave,

On ocean and earth I'm a goodly thing,

I serve from the play-ground to the grave. I have many a place in the busy world,

Of triumph and fear, of sorrow and joy ;
I carry the freeman's flag unfurl'd,

And am link'd to childhood's darling toy:
Then scatter me wide, and hackle me well,
And a varied tale shall the hempseed tell.

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He saved his land, but did not lay
His soldier trappings down
To change them for the regal vest,
And don a kingly crown.

Fame was too earnest in her joy-
Too proud of such a son-
To let a robe and title mask
A noble Washington.

England, my heart is truly thine-
My loved, my native earth!-
The land that holds a mother's grave,
And gave that mother birth!
Oh, keenly sad would be the fate
That thrust me from thy shore,
And faltering my breath, that sigh'd,
Farewell for evermore!"


But did I meet such adverse lot,
I would not seek to dwell
Where olden heroes wrought the deeds
For Homer's song to tell.
Away, thou gallant ship! I'd cry,
And bear me swiftly on:
But bear me from my own fair land,
To that of Washington!


OUR native song! our native song!

Oh! where is he who loves it not? The spell it holds is deep and strong,

Where'er we go, whate'er our lot. Let other music greet our ear

With thrilling fire or dulcet tone; We speak to praise, we pause to hear,

But yet-oh! yet-'t is not our own! The anthem chant, the ballad wild,

The notes that we remember longThe theme we sung with lisping tongue"Tis this we love our native song!

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MR. SIMMONS has been several years a contributor to Blackwood's Magazine, and in

THE DISINTERMENT. LOST Lord of Song! who grandly gave Thy matchless timbrel for the spear— And, by old Hellas' hallow'd wave

Died at the feet of Freedom-hear! Hear-from thy lone and lowly tomb,

Where mid thy own "inviolate Isle," Beneath no minster's marble gloom,

No banner's golden smile,

Far from the swarming city's crowd,
Thy glory round thee for a shroud,
Thou sleepest, the pious rustic's tread
The only echo o'er thy bed,
Save, few and faint, when o'er the foam
The pilgrims of thy genius come,
From distant earth, with tears of praise,
The homage of their hearts to raise,
And curse the country's very name,

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1843 he published a volume of poems entitled Legends and Lyrics.

The giant waste of waveless tide
Her melancholy pall,

Whose folds in thickest gloom unfurl'd,

Each ray of heaven's high face debar,
Save, on the margin of the world
Where leans yon solitary star,
Large, radiant, restless, tinting with far smile
The jagged cliffs of a gray barren Isle.
Hark! o'er the waves distinctly swell
Twelve slow vibrations of a bell!
And out upon the silent ear

At once ring bold and sharply clear,
With shock more startling than if thunder
Had split the slumbering earth asunder,
The iron sounds of crow and bar;

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The nations, with a voice as dread
As that which once in Bethany
Burst to the regions of the dead,
And set the loved-one free,
Have cried, "Come forth!" and lo! again,
To smite the hearts and eyes of men
With the old awe he once instill'd
By many an unforgotten field,
Napoleon's look shall startle day-

That look that, where its anger fell,
Scorch'd empires from the earth away
As with the blasts of hell!
Up-from the dust, ye sleepers, ho!

By the blue Danube's stately wave-
From Berlin's towers-from Moscow's snow,
And Windsor's gorgeous grave!
Come-summon'd by the omnific power,
The spirit of this thrilling hour-
And, stooping from yon craggy height,
Girt by each perish'd satellite,
Each cunning tool of kingly terror
Who served your reigns of fraud and error,
Behold, where with relentless lock
Ye chain'd Prometheus to his rock,
And, when his tortured bosom ceased
Your vulture's savage beak to feast,
Where fathom-deep ye dug his cell,

And built and barr'd his coffin down,

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'Tis morn- -the marble floor is cleft,
And slight and short the labour left;
'Tis noon-they wind the windlass now
To heave the granite from his brow:
Back to each gazer's waiting heart
The life-blood leaps with anxious start-
Down Bertrand's cheek the tear-drop steals-
Low in the dust Las Casas kneels,
(Oh! Tried and trusted-still, as long
As the true heart's fidelity

Shall form the theme of harp and song,
High bards shall sing of ye!)
One moment, and thy beams, O sun!
The bier of him shall look upon,
Who, save the heaven-expell'd, alone
Dared envy thee thy blazing throne;
Who haply oft, with gaze intent,

And sick from victory's vulgar war,
Panted to sweep the firmament,

And dash thee from thy car,
And cursed the clay that still confined
His narrow conquests to mankind.

"Tis done-his chiefs are lifting now
The shroud from that tremendous brow,
That with the lightning's rapid might
Illumed Marengo's awful night-
Flash'd over Lodi's murderous bridge,
Swept Prussia from red Jena's ridge,
And broke once more the Austrian sword
By Wagram's memorable ford.
And may man's puny race, that shook
Before the terrors of that look,
Approach unshrinking now, and see
How far corruption's mastery
Has tamed the tyrant-tamer?

Raise That silken cloud, what meets the gaze? The scanty dust, or whitening bones, Or fleshless jaws' horrific mirth,

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SOUND to the sun thy solemn joy for ever!

Roll forth the enormous gladness of thy waves, Mid boundless bloom, thou bright majestic river,

Worthy the giant land thy current laves! Each bend of beauty, from the stooping cliff, Whose shade is dotted by the fisher's skiff,From rocks embattled, that, abrupt and tall, Heave their bulk skyward like a castle-wall, And hem thee in, until the Rapids hoarse Split the huge marble with an earthquake's force, To where thy waves are sweet with summer scents, Flung from the Highland's softer lineamentsEach lovelier change thy broadening billows take, Now sweeping on, now like some mighty lake, Stretching away where evening-tinted isles Woo thee to linger mid their rosy smiles

The lonely cove-the village-humming hill-
The green dell lending thee its fairy rill-
All, all, are old familiar scenes to one
Who tracks thee but by fancy's aid alone.

Yet well his boyhood's earnest hours adored.
Thy haunted headlands, since he first explored
With Weld the vast and shadowy recesses
Of their grand woods and verdant wildernesses;
Since first he open'd the enchanted books
(Whose words are silver liquid as the brook's)
Of that loved wanderer, who told the west
Van Winkle's wondrous tale, and fill'd each breast
By turns with awe, delight, or blithe emotion,

Painting the life thy forest-shadows knew, What time the settlers, crowding o'er the ocean, Spread their white sails along thy waters blue. Theirs were the hearts true liberty bestows

The valour that adventure lights in men; And in their children still the metal glows,

As well can witness each resounding glen Of the fair scene, whose mellow colours shine

Beneath the splendour of yon evening orb, That sinks serene as WASHINGTON's decline, Whose memory here should meaner thoughts


Here rose the ramparts, never rear'd in vain
When Justice smites in two the oppressor's chain;
Here, year on year, through yonder heaven of blue,
The bomb's hot wrath its rending volleys threw
Against those towers, which, scorning all attack,
Still roll'd the assailants' shatter'd battle back;
Till, as they fled in final rout, behind
Soar'd the Republic's flag, high-floating in the wind!
Long may that star-emblazoned banner wave
Its folds triumphant o'er a land so brave,
Fann'd by no breeze but that which wafts us now
The laugh of Plenty, leaning on the plough.
And should Columbia's iron-hearted men
Try the fierce fortune of the sword again,
Be theirs to wield it in no wanton cause,
Fired by no braggart orators' applause,
In no red conflict, whose unrighteous tide
Could call nor Truth nor Mercy to their side,
So may their empire still supremely sweep
From age to age the illimitable deep,
With sway surpassing all but her proud reign,
Whose hand reposes on her lion's mane-
The Ocean Queen-within whose rude isle lock'd
Their own stern fathers' infancy was rock'd;
Where first they breathed, amid the bracing north,
Fair Freedom's spirit, till she sent them forth-
Her cloud above their exodus unfurl'd-
To spread her worship o'er a second world.


RAISE the song to the mighty, whose glory shall die When the moon of his empire has dropp'd from the

sky; And if wail be awaken'd for him who smote down Grim bigotry's Moloch, guilt's bloody renown,

Be it lost in the trumpet's magnificent wo,
From the Bosphorus swelling,
To Christendom telling
That the fiery Rome-tramplers' descendant is low.
By the Prophet! remember his terrible mirth,
When he swept the Janitzars as stubble from earth;
On the domes of Sophia like midnight he stood,
The avenger of Selim's and Mustapha's blood!
Red dogs of rebellion, with tearing and yell
And chain'd valour's despair,
In their own savage lair,

Mow'd down beneath cannon and carbine they fell. Raise the song to the mighty! high Mahmoud, whose stroke

In a moment the fetters of centuries broke!
Far kings of the west, how your trophies grow dim
In the light of the fame that awaiteth for him!
The contemner of Korans, who, girded by foes,
The Ark of salvation

First launch'd for his nation,

When the press mid the curses of fanatics rose. Hu Allahu Alla! the blest caravan

Is in sight from Damascus, and Mecca is wanSheik and Imam are trembling with terror and awe, For this Cadmus of Caliphs has laugh'd at the law: Fair painting must sully the Prophet's proud tomb, For Athenè, not loth,

Has left Greece to the Goth,

And planted her arts-shading olive in Roum.

In vain, Ghazi-Sultaun! when Pera's sweet shore
In the blue of Propontis is rosy no more-
When Olympus no longer on Thrace looks abroad,
And the name of the Frank shall not signify fraud,
Then the slaves shall be worthy the war-vest, and

When thy spirit imparts
To their recreant hearts

Its grandeur, thy horse-tails may flap over men.
Sound the trump for the mighty! great Allah thy


With Azrel, the angel unsparing, is gone! While round his shrunk borders the thunder was growling,

And the Muscovite wolves thickly herded were howling,

And snuffing the gales that, refreshingly cool,
On their merciless thirst
In wild redolence burst,

Where, bulwark'd in gold, blush the brides of Stainboul.

Sound the trump for the mighty! he died ere the tramp

Of the terror-horsed Tartar who dash'd from the camp Stay'd his soul with the tale that his dastardly hordes Lay reap'd upon Nekshib, where sickles were swords!

And the lords of the spear's haughty kingdom has


To the Rebel and Hun!

And the death-song is done:

But thy praise shall not perish, lost Mahmoud the


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