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Home  »  The American National Song-Book  »  Lydia Huntley Sigourney (1791–1865)

William McCarty, comp. The American National Song Book. 1842.

On the Character of Commodore Macdonough

Lydia Huntley Sigourney (1791–1865)

THE SCENE of death is past: the cannon’s roar

Dies in faint echoes on the distant wave.

The Christian and the hero stands alone

Encircled by the slain. No flush of joy

Or ray of triumph gilds his thoughtful brow;

For though his heart ascends in grateful praise

To Him who heard his prayer, it sighs with pain,

Lamenting o’er the wo his hand has wrought.

That bosom, which, amidst the battle’s rage,

Was calm and tranquil, feels the life-blood creep

Chill through its channels, and that manly cheek,

Which kept its hue unblanch’d when shrieks of death

And agony arose, is pale, and sad,

And wet with bitter tears for brethren lost.

To them he turns his eye, but meets no glance

Of answering friendship. On the deck they sleep

Pale, ghastly, silent; while the purple stream

Flows, slowly ebbing, from their bosoms cold.

One short hour since, he saw them full of life,

And strength, and courage; now the northern blast

Sighs as it passes o’er them—whispering low,

“Behold the end of man!”

Nor yet for friends alone the victor sighs,

The noble heart may mourn a fallen foe,

And do no wrong to honour; may revere

His virtues, and lament that cruel fate

Bade those to meet so stern who would have joy’d

To join in friendship’s pure and sacred bands.

He fought not for the vain applause of man,

To light the flame of war in distant lands,

Or carry fire, and sword, and wo, and death

Among the innocent; but nerved his arm

And steel’d his ardent heart, to meet the sword

Drawn on his native land, and urged to blood,

By provocation strange and the blind wrath

Of erring man. He saw a martial host

Press, with invading step, her valleys green,

Pour o’er her placid lakes the storm of war;

Saw her smooth waters darken’d with the shade

Of crowding fleets; he saw the smoke arise

In heavy volumes, from those splendid domes,

Where legislation held her awful sway.

He felt her sad disgrace, and heard a voice,

Deep toned and piercing, call the brave to arms;

His was the heart to answer, and he rose,

With confidence in heaven, and soul prepared.

He stood the shock, and from the furnace flame

Came forth like gold. And if this scene of wo

Is still to last, may many heroes rise,

Thus bright with rays whose source is from within,

And clad in virtue’s arms.

The temper’d sword, long bathed in blood, may break;

The shield may be destroy’d; the well-aim’d dart

Err in its course; the warrior’s eye grow dim;

But the firm soul, whose trust is placed above,

Shrinks not; though loud that last, dread trump should sound,

Whose warning voice shall rend the solid earth,

And give her glory to the whelming flame.