« ForrigeFortsæt »
The awful fountains of the deep did lift
New England's Dead.—Mc LELLAN.
I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts; she needs none. There she Is; behold her, and judge for yourselves.-There is her history. The world know it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Kill; and there they will remain forever. The bone her sons, falling in the great struggle for independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every state, from New England to Georgia; and there they will remain forever.'
On every hill they lie;
By bloody victory.
Its red and awful tide,
With slaughter deeply dyed.
And on the southern plain,
And by the roaring main.
The land is holy where they fought,
And holy where they fell;
The land they loved so well.
A handful of brave men;
The God of battles heard their cry,
And where are ye to-day?
That ye have passed away;
In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The grass grows green, the harvest bright,
Above each soldier's mound.
Shall muster them no more;
And they heed not its roar.
In many a bloody day,
For they have passed away.
Yes! bury me deep in the infinite sea,
Let my heart have a limitless grave;
As the course of the tempest-wave.
Were the fathomless depths of my mind;
Were as tides to the rest of mankind.
Then my briny pall shall engirdle the world,
As in life did the voice of my fame;
Shall seem to reecho my name.
In the uttermost corners of earth;
In the glorified land of my birth.
It would burst from a narrower tomb;
Whose mandate to millions was doom?
Hymn of the Moravian Nuns at the Consecration of Pulaski's
The standard of count Pulaski, the noble Pole who fell in the attack upon Savannah, during the American Revolution, was of crimson silk, embroidered by the Moravian nuns of Bethlehem in Pennsylvania.
When the dying flame of day
Had been consecrated there;
Take thy banner. May it wave
Take thy banner;-and, beneath
Martial cloak and shroud for thee.
Imlac's Description of a Poet.-JOHNSON. · Being now resolved to be a poet, I saw every thing with a new purpose; my sphere of attention was suddenly magnified: no kind of knowledge was to be overlooked. Í ranged mountains and deserts for images and resemblances, and pictured upon my mind every tree of the forest and flower of the valley. I observed with equal care the crags of the rock and the pinnacles of the palace. Sometimes I wandered along the mazes of the rivulet, and sometimes watched the changes of the summer clouds.
• To a poet nothing can be useless. Whatever is beautiful, and whatever is dreadful, must be familiar to his imag
ination: he must be conversant with all that is awfully vast or elegantly little. The plants of the garden, the animals of the wood, the minerals of the earth, and meteors of the sky, must all concur to store his mind with inexhaustible variety: for every idea is useful for the enforcement or decoration of moral or religious truth; and he, who knows most, will have most power of diversifying his scenes, and of gratifying his reader with remote allusions and unexpected instruction.'
All the appearances of nature I was therefore careful to study, and every country which I have surveyed has contributed something to my poetical powers.”
• In so wide a survey,' said the prince, you must surely have left much unobserved. I have lived, till now, within the circuit of these mountains, and yet cannot walk abroad without the sight of something which I had never beheld before, or never heeded.'
* The business of a poet,' said Imlac, is to examine, not the individual, but the species; to remark general properties and large appearances; he does not number the streaks of the tulip, or describe the different shades in the verdure of the forest. He is to exhibit in his portraits of nature such prominent and striking features, as recall the original to every mind; and must neglect the minuter discriminations, which one may have remarked, and another have neglected, for those characteristics which are alike obvious to vigilance and carelessness.
But the knowledge of nature is only half the task of a poet; he must be acquainted likewise with all the modes of sife. His character requires that he estimate the happiness and misery of every condition; observe the power of all the passions in all their combinations, and trace the changes of the human mind as they are modified by various institutions and accidental influences of climate or custom, from the sprightliness of infancy to the despondence of decrepitude.
'He must divest himself of the prejudices of his age or country; he must consider right and wrong in their abstracted and invariable state; he must disregard present laws and opinions, and rise to general and transcendental truths, which will always be the same: he must therefore content himself with the slow progress of his name; contemn the applause of his own time, and commit his claims to the justice of posterity. He must write as the interpreter of nature, and the legislator of mankind, and consider him