That woo'd me to its bosom: Raleigh's fame, The New World's marvels, then made old men heroes, And young men dreamers! So I left my home With that wild seaman. The villain whom I trusted, when we reached The bark he ruled, cast me to chains and darkness, Call'd me on deck-struck off my fetters: "Boy!" I wrench'd From his own hand the blade it bore, and struck A hundred knives gleam'd round me; but the pirate, And left me on the waves alone with God! That day, and all that night, upon the seas Toss'd the frail barrier between life and death. Heaven lull'd the gales; and when the stars came forth, Recall'd that wretch's words, and murmur'd, "Wave Day dawn'd, and glittering in the sun, A sail-a flag! behold It pass'd away, And saw me not. Noon, and then thirst and famine; And, with parch'd lips, I call'd on death, and sought OUR HEROES. And lifted hair, I floated on, till sense Grew dim and dimlier, and a terrible sleep, I awoke, and heard My native tongue. Kind looks were bent upon me; 65 OUR HEROES. JOHN A. ANDREW. THE heart swells with unwonted emotion when we remember our sons and brothers whose constant valor has sustained, on the field, the cause of our country, of civilization, and liberty. On the ocean, on the rivers, on the land, on the heights where they thundered down from the clouds of Lookout Mountain the defiance of the skies, they have graven with their swords a record imperishable. The Muse herself demands the lapse of silent years to soften, by the influences of Time, her too keen and poignant realization of the scenes of War-the pathos, the heroism, the fierce joy, the grief of battle. But, during the ages to come, she will brood over their memory. Into the hearts of her consecrated priests she will breathe the inspirations of lofty and undying beauty, sublimity, and truth, in all the glowing forms of speech, of literature, and plastic art. By the homely traditions of the fireside, by the head-stones in the church-yard consecrated to those whose forms repose far off in rude graves by the Rappahannock, or sleep beneath the sea,--embalmed in the memories of succeeding generations of parents and children, the heroic dead will live on in immortal youth. By their names, their character, their service, their fate, their glory, they cannot fail :— "They never fail who die In a great cause; the block may soak their goro ; Their heads may sodden in the sun, their limbs But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts The world at last to FREEDOM." The edict of Nantes, maintaining the religious liberty of the Huguenots, gave lustre to the fame of Henry the Great, whose name will gild the pages of history after mankind may have forgotten the material prowess and the white plume of Navarre. The Great Proclamation of Liberty will lift the ruler who uttered it, our nation and our age, above all vulgar destiny. The bell which rang out the Declaration of Independence has found at last a voice articulate, to "proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof." It has been heard across oceans, and has modified the sentiments of cabinets and kings. The people of the Old World have heard it, and their hearts stop to catch the last whisper of its echoes. The poor slave has heard it, and with bounding joy, tempered by the mystery of religion, he worships and adores. The waiting continent has heard it, and already foresees the fulfilled prophecy, when she will sit "redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled by the irresistible. Genius of Universal Emancipation." THE CLOSING YEAR. GEORGE D. PRENTICE. 'Tis midnight's holy hour,-and silence now Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds Of the departed year. No funeral train Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood, THE CLOSING YEAR. With melancholy light, the moon-beams rest Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, In mournful cadences that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, For memory and for tears. 'Tis a time Within the deep, Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, Whose tones are like the wizard's voice of Time And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions that have passed away, On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts And bending mournfully above the pale, Sweet forms, that slumber there, scatters dead flowers The year Has gone, and with it, many a glorious throng 67 It passed o'er The battle-plain where sword, and spear, and shield, Yet ere it melted in the viewless air It heralded its millions to their home In the dim land of dreams. Remorseless Time! Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe!—what power Can stay him in his silent course, or melt His iron heart to pity? On, still on, He presses, and forever. The proud bird, Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind Revolutions sweep O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast To their mysterious caverns,-mountains rear |