Earlier Poems (1830-1836) | Page 2

the intention was abandoned. We?confidently anticipate that the Secretary of the Navy will in like manner consult the general wish in regard to the Constitution, and either let her remain in ordinary or rebuild her whenever the public service may require."--New York Journal of Commerce.
The poem was an impromptu outburst of feeling and was published on the next day but one after reading the above paragraph.
AY, tear her tattered ensign down?Long has it waved on high,?And many an eye has danced to see?That banner in the sky;?Beneath it rung the battle shout,?And burst the cannon's roar;--?The meteor of the ocean air?Shall sweep the clouds no more.
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,?Where knelt the vanquished foe,?When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,?And waves were white below,?No more shall feel the victor's tread,?Or know the conquered knee;--?The harpies of the shore shall pluck?The eagle of the sea!
Oh better that her shattered hulk?Should sink beneath the wave;?Her thunders shook the mighty deep,?And there should be her grave;?Nail to the mast her holy flag,?Set every threadbare sail,?And give her to the god of storms,?The lightning and the gale!
THE LAST LEAF
This poem was suggested by the appearance in one of our?streets of a venerable relic of the Revolution, said to be one of the party who threw the tea overboard in Boston Harbor. He was a fine monumental specimen in his cocked hat and knee?breeches, with his buckled shoes and his sturdy cane. The smile with which I, as a young man, greeted him, meant no disrespect to an honored fellow-citizen whose costume was out of date, but whose patriotism never changed with years. I do not recall any earlier example of this form of verse, which was commended by the fastidious Edgar Allan Poe, who made a copy of the whole poem which I have in his own handwriting. Good Abraham Lincoln had a great liking for the poem, and repeated it from memory to Governor Andrew, as the governor himself told me.
I SAW him once before,?As he passed by the door,?And again?The pavement stones resound,?As he totters o'er the ground?With his cane.
They say that in his prime,?Ere the pruning-knife of Time?Cut him down,?Not a better man was found?By the Crier on his round?Through the town.
But now he walks the streets,?And he looks at all he meets?Sad and wan,?And he shakes his feeble head,?That it seems as if he said,?"They are gone."
The mossy marbles rest?On the lips that he has prest?In their bloom,?And the names he loved to hear?Have been carved for many a year?On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said--?Poor old lady, she is dead?Long ago--?That he had a Roman nose,?And his cheek was like a rose?In the snow.
But now his nose is thin,?And it rests upon his chin?Like a staff,?And a crook is in his back,?And a melancholy crack?In his laugh.
I know it is a sin?For me to sit and grin?At him here;?But the old three-cornered hat,?And the breeches, and all that,?Are so queer!
And if I should live to be?The last leaf upon the tree?In the spring,?Let them smile, as I do now,?At the old forsaken bough?Where I cling.
THE CAMBRIDGE CHURCHYARD
OUR ancient church! its lowly tower,?Beneath the loftier spire,?Is shadowed when the sunset hour?Clothes the tall shaft in fire;?It sinks beyond the distant eye?Long ere the glittering vane,?High wheeling in the western sky,?Has faded o'er the plain.
Like Sentinel and Nun, they keep?Their vigil on the green;?One seems to guard, and one to weep,?The dead that lie between;?And both roll out, so full and near,?Their music's mingling waves,?They shake the grass, whose pennoned spear?Leans on the narrow graves.
The stranger parts the flaunting weeds,?Whose seeds the winds have strown?So thick, beneath the line he reads,?They shade the sculptured stone;?The child unveils his clustered brow,?And ponders for a while?The graven willow's pendent bough,?Or rudest cherub's smile.
But what to them the dirge, the knell??These were the mourner's share,--?The sullen clang, whose heavy swell?Throbbed through the beating air;?The rattling cord, the rolling stone,?The shelving sand that slid,?And, far beneath, with hollow tone?Rung on the coffin's lid.
The slumberer's mound grows fresh and green,?Then slowly disappears;?The mosses creep, the gray stones lean,?Earth hides his date and years;?But, long before the once-loved name?Is sunk or worn away,?No lip the silent dust may claim,?That pressed the breathing clay.
Go where the ancient pathway guides,?See where our sires laid down?Their smiling babes, their cherished brides,?The patriarchs of the town;?Hast thou a tear for buried love??A sigh for transient power??All that a century left above,?Go, read it in an hour!
The Indian's shaft, the Briton's ball,?The sabre's thirsting edge,?The hot shell, shattering in its fall,?The bayonet's rending wedge,--?Here scattered death; yet, seek the spot,?No trace thine eye can see,?No altar,--and they need it not?Who leave their children free!
Look where the turbid rain-drops stand?In many a chiselled square;?The knightly crest, the shield, the brand?Of honored names