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One hoary rock shall stand,

       Be this its latest legend—

       HERE WAS THE PILGRIM'S LAND!

THE STEAMBOAT

       Table of Contents

      SEE how yon flaming herald treads

       The ridged and rolling waves,

       As, crashing o'er their crested heads,

       She bows her surly slaves!

       With foam before and fire behind,

       She rends the clinging sea,

       That flies before the roaring wind,

       Beneath her hissing lee.

      The morning spray, like sea-born flowers,

       With heaped and glistening bells,

       Falls round her fast, in ringing showers,

       With every wave that swells;

       And, burning o'er the midnight deep,

       In lurid fringes thrown,

       The living gems of ocean sweep

       Along her flashing zone.

      With clashing wheel and lifting keel,

       And smoking torch on high,

       When winds are loud and billows reel,

       She thunders foaming by;

       When seas are silent and serene,

       With even beam she glides,

       The sunshine glimmering through the green

       That skirts her gleaming sides.

      Now, like a wild, nymph, far apart

       She veils her shadowy form,

       The beating of her restless heart

       Still sounding through the storm;

       Now answers, like a courtly dame,

       The reddening surges o'er,

       With flying scarf of spangled flame,

       The Pharos of the shore.

      To-night yon pilot shall not sleep,

       Who trims his narrowed sail;

       To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep

       Her broad breast to the gale;

       And many a foresail, scooped and strained,

       Shall break from yard and stay,

       Before this smoky wreath has stained

       The rising mist of day.

      Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud,

       I see yon quivering mast;

       The black throat of the hunted cloud

       Is panting forth the blast!

       An hour, and, whirled like winnowing chaff,

       The giant surge shall fling

       His tresses o'er yon pennon staff,

       White as the sea-bird's wing.

      Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep;

       Nor wind nor wave shall tire

       Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap

       With floods of living fire;

       Sleep on, and, when the morning light

       Streams o'er the shining bay,

       Oh think of those for whom the night

       Shall never wake in day.

LEXINGTON

       Table of Contents

      SLOWLY the mist o'er the meadow was creeping,

       Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun,

       When from his couch, while his children were sleeping,

       Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.

       Waving her golden veil

       Over the silent dale,

       Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire;

       Hushed was his parting sigh,

       While from his noble eye

       Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire.

      On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing

       Calmly the first-born of glory have met;

       Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing!

       Look! with their life-blood the young grass is wet

       Faint is the feeble breath,

       Murmuring low in death,

       "Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;"

       Nerveless the iron hand,

       Raised for its native land,

       Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side.

      Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling,

       From their far hamlets the yeomanry come;

       As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling,

       Circles the beat of the mustering drum.

       Fast on the soldier's path

       Darken the waves of wrath—

       Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall;

       Red glares the musket's flash,

       Sharp rings the rifle's crash,

       Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall.

      Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing,

       Never to shadow his cold brow again;

       Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing,

       Reeking and panting he droops on the rein;

       Pale is the lip of scorn,

       Voiceless the trumpet horn,

       Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high;

       Many a belted breast

       Low on the turf shall rest

       Ere the dark hunters the herd have passed by.

      Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving,

       Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail,

       Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving,

       Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale;

       Far as the tempest thrills

       Over the darkened hills,

       Far as the sunshine streams over the plain,

       Roused by the tyrant band,

       Woke all the mighty land,

       Girded for battle, from mountain to main.

      Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying!

       Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest,

       While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying

       Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest.

       Borne on her Northern pine,

       Long o'er the foaming brine

       Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun;

       Heaven keep her ever free,

       Wide as o'er land and sea

       Floats the fair emblem

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