Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. (1838–1915). Yale Book of American Verse. 1912.
Fitz-Greene Halleck 1790–1867
Fitz-Greene Halleck13 Connecticut
—S
That crouches at their feet, a conquered wave;
’T is a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree,
Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave;
Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold and free,
And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave;
And where none kneel, save when to Heaven they pray,
Nor even then, unless in their own way.
A “fierce democracie,” where all are true To what themselves have voted—right or wrong— And to their laws, denominated blue; (If red, they might to Draco’s code belong); A vestal state, which power could not subdue, Nor promise win—like her own eagle’s nest, Sacred—the San Marino of the West. They bow to, but may turn him out next year: They reverence their priest, but disagreeing In price or creed, dismiss him without fear; They have a natural talent for foreseeing And knowing all things; and should Park appear From his long tour in Africa, to show The Niger’s source, they ’d meet him with—“we know!” And scorn to give aught other reason why; Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, And think it kindness to his majesty; A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none. Such are they nurtured, such they live and die: All—but a few apostates, who are meddling With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence and peddling; The A B C from Webster’s spelling-book; Gallant and godly, making love and preaching, And gaining, by what they call “hook and crook,” And what the moralists call over-reaching, A decent living. The Virginians look Upon them with as favorable eyes As Gabriel on the devil in Paradise. At home, where all their worth and pride is placed; And there their hospitable fires burn clear, And there the lowliest farmhouse hearth is graced With manly hearts, in piety sincere, Faithful in love, in honor stern and chaste, In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave. Is felt even in the nation’s destiny; Men who swayed senates with a statesman’s soul, And looked on armies with a leader’s eye; Names that adorn and dignify the scroll, Whose leaves contain their country’s history, And tales of love and war—listen to one Of the Green-Mountaineer—the Stark of Bennington. Briefly he spoke before the fight began: “Soldiers! Those German gentlemen are bought For four pounds eight and sevenpence per man, By England’s king; a bargain, as is thought. Are we worth more? Let ’s prove it now we can; For we must beat them, boys, ere set of sun, Or Mary Stark ’s a widow.” It was done…… Hers are not Tempe’s nor Arcadia’s spring, Nor the long summer of Cathayan vales, The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that fling Such wild enchantment o’er Boccaccio’s tales Of Florence and the Arno; yet the wing Of life’s best angel, Health, is on her gales Through sun and snow; and, in the autumn time Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime. Her twilight hills—her cool and starry eves, The glorious splendor of her sunset clouds, The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves, Come o’er the eye, in solitude and crowds, Where’er his web of song her poet weaves; And his mind’s brightest vision but displays The autumn scenery of his boyhood’s days. Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power; The maiden, listening in the moonlight grove, The mother, smiling in her infant’s bower; Forms, features, worshipped while we breathe or move, Be by some spirit of your dreaming hour Borne, like Loretto’s chapel, through the air To the green land I sing, then wake, you ’ll find them there.