| |
| LAND 1 of the East, whose fertile vales unfold | |
| The fairest product of the fruitful year; | |
| Whose towering hills upon their summits hold | |
| A hardy race, to wildest freedom dear, | |
| Unaw’d by danger, unrestrain’d by fear; | 5 |
| How are thy prospects changed! the plough no more, | |
| Worn bright by labor, checks the panting steer | |
| Through reeking furrow toiling, as of yore, | |
| Nor clamorous seamen ply along the busy shore. | |
| |
| Around some tavern door thy children stand, | 10 |
| Where swings the grating sign on windy day, | |
| Cheerless and sad, a melancholy band, | |
| Till draughts of whiskey wile their cares away; | |
| Then loud of tongue, impetuous for affray, | |
| All raise at once of wisdom full the voice, | 15 |
| And beardless valor, and experience gray, | |
| In hideous uproar wild increase the noise, | |
| While oft replenish’d cups exalt the noontide joys. | |
| |
| Oh, stream Lethean! reeking from the still, | |
| How sweet thy stimulus at early dawn! | 20 |
| When wakes the thirsty wretch, the welcome rill | |
| Dispels of recollection thoughts forlorn; | |
| For oft the aching head at rising morn, | |
| A sad memento of the evening past, | |
| From long protracted slumber slowly drawn, | 25 |
| Toward the accustom’d cup a look will cast, | |
| And sigh, perhaps in vain, to think that cup the last. | |
| |
| War’s crimson banner broad unfurl’d, | |
| Waves horrid o’er the western world; | |
| Full swells the note of rolling drum, | 30 |
| Like distant thunder, hoarse and grum. | |
| And sharp and shrill the piercing fife | |
| Wakes the stern soul to deeds of strife. | |
| The peaceful scythe its form forsakes, | |
| The bending cutlass’ curve it takes; | 35 |
| Wrenched from its shape by glowing heat, | |
| And on the groaning anvil beat; | |
| The shining pitchfork strait is set, | |
| Transform’d to pointed bayonet, | |
| Disdainful of its former trade | 40 |
| And proudly glitters on parade. | |
| |
| Each wayward youngster from the field | |
| In fancy grasps the victor shield, | |
| With beating heart he seeks the plain, | |
| Intent on glory and on gain; | 45 |
| Before his eyes, in beam divine, | |
| The rising hopes of plunder shine; | |
| For plunder, trade aside is cast— | |
| The cobler leaves his mouldy last; | |
| The homespun frock and beaver gray, | 50 |
| Are changed to regimentals gay; | |
| The tailor’s work is left undone, | |
| While ’prentice lads to combat run; | |
| And o’er each lately smiling brow | |
| Frowns pale and lurid anger now. | 55 |
| |
| Is there a heart so wild and rude, | |
| But sickens at commencing feud? | |
| Then let that rugged heart sojourn | |
| Beyond Caffraria’s utmost bourn; | |
| Pitch with the Arab wild his tent, | 60 |
| Or on some desert island, rent | |
| From the mainland by torrent storm, | |
| His lonely habitation form. | |
| Alas! those fields, which late so gay | |
| Spread their broad surface to the day— | 65 |
| Within the broad potato patch | |
| In vain for food the children scratch; | |
| No longer are the swine debarr’d | |
| From entrance to the turnip yard; | |
| Thy fields, O Weathersfield, of yore | 70 |
| That many a pungent onion bore, | |
| Now overgrown with noisome weeds, | |
| No longer savory garlic feeds; | |
| There many a harvest lost, his purse, | |
| Devoid of cash, the swain shall curse! | 75 |
| And many a marriage long delay’d | |
| Rue the sad year when war was made. | |
| |
| Ah, me! how many tears that day | |
| Shrunk from their crystal source away! | |
| And many a damsel’s cheek grew pale, | 80 |
| And many a bosom heaved the sigh, | |
| And many a matron told the tale, | |
| The dismal tale, of battle nigh. | |
| Ah, me! unfit for warlike deed, | |
| For cannon’s roar, or charging steed; | 85 |
| Ill suits the sabre’s ruthless blade | |
| The hand accustom’d to the spade; | |
| And nerves that wont to wield the hoe, | |
| Relax before the deadly blow. | |
| Land of my sires! that spirits stern | 90 |
| Within thy children’s bosoms burn, | |
| Full well I know; on muster day, | |
| When thoughts of war were far away, | |
| How oft the sun that cloudless rose, | |
| At eve has witness’d many a nose | 95 |
| With blood defiled; and many an eye | |
| The rainbow’s varied tints defy. | |
| Though, cramp’d with age, my sluggish blood | |
| Rolls through my veins in languid flood, | |
| Still swells with life renew’d, the vein, | 100 |
| As memory views the young campaign; | |
| And many a scar upon my head | |
| Recalls the day of battle fled. | |
| |
| Yet in this youthful warrior-school, | |
| Stern wisdom held her rigid rule; | 105 |
| Unlike the sons of southern shore, | |
| Who bathe their blades in foeman’s gore; | |
| Whose boiling blood in realms of fire | |
| Delighted sees his foe expire; | |
| And from the combat lifeless drops, | 110 |
| Or limping homeward wounded hops. | |
| With us, the brawny fist supply’d | |
| The pistol’s place at battle tide; | |
| By dint of lusty thump and kick, | |
| Or aid of massy walking stick; | 115 |
| By hand, and teeth, and stubborn foot, | |
| Was settled every dire dispute; | |
| We wisely shunn’d the hissing ball, | |
| And knew life lost, was loss of all. * * * * | |
| Alas! how oft the poet’s line | 120 |
| Has mourn’d the fickle mind of man; | |
| The theme of every sage divine, | |
| Since tythes and sermons first began. | |
| Mournful the poet, at midnight hour, | |
| Beholds the politician sage, | 125 |
| He sees the world his worth adore, | |
| His name descend to latest age; | |
| Let morning come, the hammer’s sound | |
| Recalls him to his daily trade; | |
| And while the lapstone rings around, | 130 |
| He fairly is a cobler made. | |
| Even thus, at ward-room table too, | |
| Behold the chiefs of England’s crew; | |
| Ere yet across its social bound | |
| The tenth decanter has gone round, | 135 |
| Who but would think assembled there, | |
| Souls that might Alexander dare; | |
| Beat Hannibal in bloody work, | |
| Or wrench his whiskers from the Turk; | |
| Eclipse the Swedish Charles in war, | 140 |
| Or show with Nelson scar for scar; | |
| Brave the wild savage war-whoop yell, | |
| And bear the palm from William Tell? | |
