Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
                Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
               Untouched thy homed blossoms blow,
                Unseen thy little branches greet:
                  No roving foot shall crush thee here,
                  No busy hand provoke a tear.

               By Nature's self in white arrayed,
                She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
               And planted here the guardian shade,
                And sent soft waters murmuring by;
                  Thus quietly thy summer goes,
                  Thy days declining to repose.

               Smit with those charms, that must decay,
                I grieve to see your future doom;
               They died—nor were those flowers more gay,
                The flowers that did in Eden bloom;
                  Unpitying frosts, and Autumn's power,
                  Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

               From morning suns and evening dews
                At first thy little being came;
               If nothing once, you nothing lose,
                For when you die you are the same;
                  The space between is but an hour,
                  The frail duration of a flower.

               Thou, born to sip the lake or spring,
                Or quaff the waters of the stream,
               Why hither come on vagrant wing?
                Does Bacchus tempting seem,—
                  Did he for you this glass prepare?
                  Will I admit you to a share?

               Did storms harass or foes perplex,
                Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay—
               Did wars distress, or labors vex,
                Or did you miss your way?
                  A better seat you could not take
                  Than on the margin of this lake.

               Welcome!—I hail you to my glass
                All welcome, here, you find;
               Here, let the cloud of trouble pass,
                Here, be all care resigned.
                  This fluid never fails to please,
                  And drown the griefs of men or bees.

               What forced you here we cannot know,
                And you will scarcely tell,
               But cheery we would have you go
                And bid a glad farewell:
                  On lighter wings we bid you fly,
                  Your dart will now all foes defy.

               Yet take not, oh! too deep a drink,
                And in this ocean die;
               Here bigger bees than you might sink,
                Even bees full six feet high.
                  Like Pharaoh, then, you would be said
                  To perish in a sea of red.

               Do as you please, your will is mine;
                Enjoy it without fear,
               And your grave will be this glass of wine,
                Your epitaph—a tear—
                  Go, take your seat in Charon's boat;
                  We'll tell the hive, you died afloat.

               In spite of all the learned have said,
                I still my old opinion keep;
               The posture that we give the dead
                Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

               Not so the ancients of these lands;—
                The Indian, when from life released,
               Again is seated with his friends,
                And shares again the joyous feast.

               His imaged birds, and painted bowl,
                And venison, for a journey dressed,
               Bespeak the nature of the soul,
                Activity, that wants no rest.

               His bow for action ready bent,
                And arrows, with a head of stone,
               Can only mean that life is spent,
                And not the old ideas gone.

               Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way,
                No fraud upon the dead commit,—
               Observe the swelling turf, and say,
                They do not die, but here they sit.

               Here still a lofty rock remains,
                On which the curious eye may trace
               (Now wasted half by wearing rains)
                The fancies of a ruder race.

               Here still an aged elm aspires,
                Beneath whose far projecting shade
               (And which the shepherd still admires)
                children of the forest played.

               There oft a restless Indian queen
                (Pale Shebah with her braided hair),
               And many a barbarous form is seen
                To chide the man that lingers there.

               By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews,
                In habit for the chase arrayed,
               The hunter still the deer pursues,
                The hunter and the deer—a shade!

               And long shall timorous Fancy see
                The painted chief, and pointed spear,
               And Reason's self shall bow the knee
                To shadows and delusions here.

               At Eutaw Springs the valiant died;
                Their limbs with dust are covered o'er;
               Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;
                How many heroes are no more!

               If in this wreck of ruin, they
                Can yet be thought to claim a tear,
               O smite thy gentle breast, and say
                The friends of freedom slumber here!

               Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain,
                If goodness rules thy generous breast,
               Sigh for the wasted rural reign;
                Sigh for the shepherds sunk to rest!

               Stranger, their humble groves adorn;
                You too may fall, and ask a tear:
               'Tis not the beauty of the morn
                That proves the evening shall be clear.

               They saw their injured country's woe,
                The flaming town, the wasted field;
               Then rushed to meet the insulting foe;
                They took the spear—but left the shield.

               Led by thy conquering standards, Greene,
                The Britons they compelled to fly:
               None distant viewed the fatal plain,
                None grieved in such a cause to die—

               But, like the Parthian, famed of old,
                Who, flying, still their arrows threw,
               These routed Britons, full as bold,
                Retreated, and retreating slew.

               Now rest in peace, our patriot band;
                Though far from nature's limits thrown,
               We trust they find a happier land,
                A bright Phoebus of their own.

               Gallants attend and hear a friend
                Trill forth harmonious ditty,
               Strange things I'll tell which late befell
                In Philadelphia city.

               'Twas early day, as poets say,
                Just when the sun was rising,
               A soldier stood on a log of wood,
                And saw a thing surprising.

               As in amaze he stood to gaze,
                The truth can't be denied, sir,
               He spied a score of kegs or more
                Come floating down the tide, sir.

               A sailor too in jerkin blue,
                This strange appearance viewing,
               First damned his eyes, in great surprise,
                Then said, "Some mischief's brewing.

               "These kegs, I'm told, the rebels hold,
                Packed up like pickled herring;
               And they're come down to attack the town,
                In this new way of ferrying."

               The soldier flew, the sailor too,
                And scared almost to death, sir,
               Wore out their shoes, to spread the news,
                And ran till out of breath, sir.

               Now up and down throughout the town,
                Most frantic scenes were acted;
               And some ran here, and others there,
                Like men almost distracted.

               Some fire cried, which some denied,
                But said the earth had quaked;
               And girls and boys, with hideous noise,
                Ran through the streets half naked.

               Sir William he, snug as a flea,
                Lay all this time a snoring,
               Nor dreamed of harm as he lay warm,
                In bed with Mrs. Loring.

               Now in a fright, he starts upright,
                Awaked by such a clatter;
               He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries,
                "For God's sake, what's the matter?"

               At his bedside he then espied,
                Sir Erskine at command, sir,
               Upon one foot he had one boot,
                And th' other in his hand, sir.

               "Arise, arise," Sir Erskine cries,
                "The rebels—more's the pity,
               Without a boat are all afloat,
                And ranged before the city.

               "The motley crew, in vessels new,
                With Satan for their guide, sir,
               Packed up in bags, or wooden kegs,
                Come driving down the tide, sir.

               "Therefore prepare for bloody war;
                These kegs must all be routed,
               Or surely we despised shall be,
                And British courage doubted."

               The royal band now ready stand
                All ranged in dread array, sir,
               With stomach' stout to see it out,
                And make a bloody day, sir.

               The cannons roar from shore to shore.
                The small arms make a rattle;
               Since wars began I'm sure no man
                E'er saw so strange a battle.

               The rebel dales, the rebel vales,
                With rebel trees surrounded,
               The distant woods, the hills and floods,
                With rebel echoes sounded.

               The fish below swam to and fro,
                Attacked from every quarter;
               Why sure, thought they, the devil's to pay,
                'Mongst folks above the water.

               The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly made,
                Of rebel staves and hoops, sir,
               Could not oppose their powerful foes,
                The conquering British troops, sir.

               From morn to night these men of might
                Displayed amazing courage;
               And when the sun was fairly down,
                Retired to sup their porridge.

               A hundred men with each a pen,
                Or more upon my word, sir,
               It is most true would be too few,
                Their valor to record, sir.

               Such feats did they perform that day,
                Against these wicked kegs, sir,
               That years to come: if they get home,
                They'll make their boasts and brags, sir.

               Hail, Columbia! happy land!
               Hail, ye heroes!  heaven-born band!
                 Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause,
                 Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause,
               And when the storm of war was gone,
               Enjoyed the peace your valor won.
                 Let independence be our boast,
                 Ever mindful what it cost;
                 Ever grateful for the prize,
                 Let its altar reach the skies.

                    Firm, united, let us be,
                    Rallying round our Liberty;
                    As a band of brothers joined,
                    Peace and safety we shall find.

               Immortal patriots! rise once more:
               Defend your rights, defend your shore:
                 Let no rude foe, with impious hand,
                 Let no rude foe, with impious hand,
               Invade the shrine where sacred lies
               Of toil and blood the well-earned prize.
                 While offering peace sincere and just,
                 In Heaven we place a manly trust,
                 That truth and justice will prevail,
                 And every scheme of bondage fail.

                    Firm, united, let us be,
                    Rallying round our Liberty;
                    As a band of brothers joined,
                    Peace and safety we shall find.

               Sound, sound, the trump of Fame!
               Let WASHINGTON'S great name
                 Ring through the world with loud applause,
                 Ring through the world with loud applause;
               Let every clime to Freedom dear,
               Listen with a joyful ear.
                 With equal skill, and godlike power,
                 He governed in the fearful hour
                 Of horrid war; or guides, with ease,
                 The happier times of honest peace.

                    Firm, united, let us be,
                    Rallying round our Liberty;
                    As a band of brothers joined,
                    Peace and safety we shall find.

               Behold the chief who now commands,
               Once more to serve his country, stands—
                 The rock on which the storm will beat,
                 The rock on which the storm will beat;
               But, armed in virtue firm and true,
               His hopes are fixed on Heaven and you.
                 When hope was sinking in dismay,
                 And glooms obscured Columbia's day,
                 His steady mind, from changes free.
                 Resolved on death or liberty.

                    Firm, united, let us be,
                    Rallying round our Liberty;
                    As a band of brothers joined,
                    Peace and safety we shall find.

     The breezes went steadily through the tall pines,
     A-saying "oh! hu-ush!" a-saying "oh! hu-ush!"
     As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse,
     For Hale in the bush, for Hale in the bush.

     "Keep still!" said the thrush as she nestled her young,
     In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road.
     "For the tyrants are near, and with them appear
     What bodes us no good, what bodes us no good."

     The brave captain heard it, and thought of his home
     In a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook.
     With mother and sister and memories dear,
     He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook.

     Cooling shades of the night were coming apace,
     The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat.
     The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place,
     To make his retreat; to make his retreat.

     He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves.
     As he passed through the wood; as he passed through the wood;
     And silently gained his rude launch on the shore,
     As she played with the flood; as she played with the flood.

     The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night,
     Had a murderous will; had a murderous will.
     They took him and bore him afar from the shore,
     To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill.

     No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer,
     In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell.
     But he trusted in love, from his Father above.
     In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well.

     An ominous owl, with his solemn bass voice,
     Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by:
     "The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice,
     For he must soon die; for he must soon die."

     The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained,—
     The cruel general! the cruel general!—
     His errand from camp, of the ends to be gained,
     And said that was all; and said that was all.

     They took him and bound him and bore him away,
     Down the hill's grassy side; down the hill's grassy side.
     'Twas there the base hirelings, in royal array,
     His cause did deride; his cause did deride.

     Five minutes were given, short moments, no more,
     For him to repent; for him to repent.
     He prayed for his mother, he asked not another,
     To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went.

     The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed,
     As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage.
     And Britons will shudder at gallant Hales blood,
     As his words do presage, as his words do presage.

     "Thou pale king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe,
     Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave;
     Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe.
     No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave."

               Rejoice, Americans, rejoice!
               Praise ye the Lord with heart and voice!
               The treaty's signed with faithful France,
               And now, like Frenchmen, sing and dance!

               But when your joy gives way to reason,
               And friendly hints are not deemed treason,
               Let me, as well as I am able,
               Present your Congress with a fable.

               Tired out with happiness, the frogs
               Sedition croaked through all their bogs;
               And thus to Jove the restless race,
               Made out their melancholy case.

               "Famed, as we are, for faith and prayer,
               We merit sure peculiar care;
               But can we think great good was meant us,
               When logs for Governors were sent us?

               "Which numbers crushed they fell upon,
               And caused great fear,—till one by one,
               As courage came, we boldly faced 'em,
               Then leaped upon 'em, and disgraced 'em!

               "Great Jove," they croaked, "no longer fool us,
               None but ourselves are fit to rule us;
               We are too large, too free a nation,
               To be encumbered with taxation!

               "We pray for peace, but wish confusion,
               Then right or wrong, a—revolution!
               Our hearts can never bend to obey;
               Therefore no king—and more we'll pray."

               Jove smiled, and to their fate resigned
               The restless, thankless, rebel kind;
               Left to themselves, they went to work,
               First signed a treaty with king Stork.

               He swore that they, with his alliance,
               To all the world might bid defiance;
               Of lawful rule there was an end on't,
               And frogs were henceforth—independent.

               At which the croakers, one and all!
               Proclaimed a feast, and festival!
               But joy to-day brings grief to-morrow;
               Their feasting o'er, now enter sorrow!

               The Stork grew hungry, longed for fish;
               The monarch could not have his wish;
               In rage he to the marshes flies,
               And makes a meal of his allies.

               Then grew so fond of well-fed frogs,
               He made a larder of the bogs!
               Say, Yankees, don't you feel compunction,
               At your unnatural rash conjunction?

               Can love for you in him take root,
               Who's Catholic, and absolute?
               I'll tell these croakers how he'll treat 'em;
               Frenchmen, like storks, love frogs—to eat 'em.

               I love thy kingdom, Lord,
                The house of thine abode,
               The church our blest Redeemer saved
                With his own precious blood.

               I love thy church, O God!
                Her walls before thee stand,
               Dear as the apple of thine eye,
                And graven on thy hand.

               If e'er to bless thy sons
                My voice or hands deny,
               These hands let useful skill forsake,
                This voice in silence die.

               For her my tears shall fall,
                For her my prayers ascend;
               To her my cares and toils be given
                Till toils and cares shall end.

               Beyond my highest joy
                I prize her heavenly ways,
               Her sweet communion, solemn vows,
                Her hymns of love and praise.

               Jesus, thou friend divine,
                Our Saviour and our King,
               Thy hand from every snare and foe
                Shall great deliverance bring.

               Sure as thy truth shall last,
                To Zion shall be given
               The brightest glories earth can yield,
                And brighter bliss of heaven.

     How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
       When fond recollection presents them to view!
     The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
       And every loved spot which my infancy knew!
     The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it,
       The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell,
     The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
       And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well—
     The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
     The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

     That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure,
       For often at noon, when returned from the field,
     I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
       The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
     How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
       And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
     Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
       And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well
     The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
     The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

     How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
       As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
     Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
       The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.
     And now, far removed from the loved habitation,
       The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
     As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
       And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well
     The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
     The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!

               To him who in the love of Nature holds
               Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
               A various language; for his gayer hours
               She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
               And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
               Into his darker musings, with a mild
               And healing sympathy, that steals away
               Their sharpness, ere he is aware.  When thoughts
               Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
               Over thy spirit, and sad images
               Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
               And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
               Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart;—
               Go forth, under the open sky, and list
               To Nature's teachings, while from all around—
               Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—
               Comes a still voice:—

               Yet a few days, and thee
               The all-beholding sun shall see no more
               In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground
               Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,
               Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
               Thy image.  Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
               Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
               And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
               Thine individual being, shalt thou go
               To mix forever with the elements,
               To be a brother to the insensible rock
               And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
               Turns with his share, and treads upon.  The oak
               Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

               Yet not to thine eternal resting place
               Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
               Couch more magnificent.  Thou shalt lie down
               With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
               The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,
               Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
               All in one mighty sepulchre.  The hills
               Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales
               Stretching in pensive quietness between;
               The venerable woods—rivers that move
               In majesty, and the complaining brooks
               That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
               Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,—
               Are but the solemn decorations all
               Of the great tomb of man.  The golden sun,
               The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
               Are shining on the sad abodes of death
               Through the still lapse of ages.  All that tread
               The globe are but a handful to the tribes
               That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings
               Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,

               Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
               Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
               Save his own dashing—yet the dead are there;
               And millions in those solitudes, since first
               The flight of years began, have laid them down
               In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.
               So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
               In silence from the living, and no friend
               Take note of thy departure?  All that breathe
               Will share thy destiny.  The gay will laugh
               When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
               Plod on, and each one as before will chase
               His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
               Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
               And make their bed with thee.  As the long train
               Of ages glides away, the sons of men—
               The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
               In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
               The speechless babe, and the grayheaded man—
               Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
               By those who in their turn shall follow them.

               So live, that when thy summons comes to join
               The innumerable caravan, which moves
               To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
               His chamber in the silent halls of death,
               Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
               Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
               By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
               Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
               About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

               When beechen buds begin to swell,
                 And woods the blue-bird's warble know,
               The yellow violet's modest bell
                 Peeps from the last year's leaves below.

               Ere russet fields their green resume,
                 Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,
               To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
                 Alone is in the virgin air.

               Of all her train, the hands of Spring
                 First plant thee in the watery mould,
               And I have seen thee blossoming
                 Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.

               Thy parent sun, who bade thee view
                 Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip,
               Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,
                 And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

               Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,
                 And earthward bent thy gentle eye,
               Unapt the passing view to meet,
                 When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

               Oft, in the sunless April day,
                 Thy early smile has stayed my walk;
               But midst the gorgeous blooms of May,
                 I passed thee on thy humble stalk.

               So they, who climb to wealth, forget
                 The friends in darker fortunes tried.
               I copied them—but I regret
                 That I should ape the ways of pride.

               And when again the genial hour
                 Awakes the painted tribes of light,
               I'll not o'erlook the modest flower
                 That made the woods of April bright.

                 Whither, midst falling dew,
               While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
               Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
                 Thy solitary way?

                 Vainly the fowler's eye
               Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
               As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
                 Thy figure floats along.

                 Seek'st thou the plashy brink
               Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
               Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
                 On the chafed ocean-side?

                 There is a Power whose care
               Teaches thy way along that pathless coast—
               The desert and illimitable air—
                 Lone wandering, but not lost.

                 All day thy wings have fanned,
               At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
               Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
                 Though the dark night is near.

                 And soon that toil shall end;
               Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
               And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
                 Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

                 Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
               Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, in my heart
               Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given,
                 And shall not soon depart.

                 He who, from zone to zone,
               Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
               In the long way that I must tread alone,
                 Will lead my steps aright.

               When breezes are soft and skies are fair,
               I steal an hour from study and care,
               And hie me away to the woodland scene,
               Where wanders the stream with waters of green,
               As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink
               Had given their stain to the waves they drink;
               And they, whose meadows it murmurs through,
               Have named the stream from its own fair hue.

               Yet pure its waters—its shallows are bright
               With colored pebbles and sparkles of light,
               And clear the depths where its eddies play,
               And dimples deepen and whirl away,
               And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot
               The swifter current that mines its root,
               Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill,
               The quivering glimmer of sun and rill
               With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown,
               Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone.
               Oh, loveliest there the spring days come,
               With blossoms, and birds, and wild-bees' hum;
               The flowers of summer are fairest there,
               And freshest the breath of the summer air;
               And sweetest the golden autumn day
               In silence and sunshine glides away.

               Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide,
               Beautiful stream! by the village side;
               But windest away from haunts of men,
               To quiet valley and shaded glen;
               And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill,
               Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still,
               Lonely—save when, by thy rippling tides,
               From thicket to thicket the angler glides;
               Or the simpler comes, with basket and book,
               For herbs of power on thy banks to look;
               Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me,
               To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee.
               Still—save the chirp of birds that feed
               On the river cherry and seedy reed,
               And thy own wild music gushing out
               With mellow murmur of fairy shout,
               From dawn to the blush of another day,
               Like traveller singing along his way.

               That fairy music I never hear,
               Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear,
               And mark them winding away from sight,
               Darkened with shade or flashing with light,
               While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings,
               And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings,
               But I wish that fate had left me free
               To wander these quiet haunts with thee,
               Till the eating cares of earth should depart,
               And the peace of the scene pass into my heart;
               And I envy thy stream, as it glides along
               Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song.

               Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men,
               And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen,
               And mingle among the jostling crowd,
               Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud—
               I often come to this quiet place,
               To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face,
               And gaze upon thee in silent dream,
               For in thy lonely and lovely stream
               An image of that calm life appears
               That won my heart in my greener years.