Yet not in proud triumphal song alone,

Or martial ode, or sad sepulchral dirge,

There needs no voice to make our glories known;

There needs no voice the warrior's soul to urge

To tread the bounds of nature's stormy verge;

Columbia still shall win the battle's prize;

But be it thine to bid her mind emerge

To strike her harp, until its soul arise

From the neglected shade, where low in dust it lies.

Are there no scenes to touch the poet's soul?

No deeds of arms to wake the lordly strain?

Shall Hudson's billows unregarded roll?

Has Warren fought, Montgomery died in vain?

Shame! that while every mountain stream and plain

Hath theme for truth's proud voice or fancy's wand,

No native bard the patriot harp hath ta'en,

But left to minstrels of a foreign strand

To sing the beauteous scenes of nature's loveliest land.

Oh! for a seat on Appalachia's brow,

That I might scan the glorious prospect round,

Wild waving woods, and rolling floods below,

Smooth level glades and fields with grain embrown'd,

High heaving hills, with tufted forests crown'd,

Rearing their tall tops to the heaven's blue dome,

And emerald isles, like banners green unwound,

Floating along the lake, while round them roam

Bright helms of billowy blue and plumes of dancing foam.

'Tis true no fairies haunt our verdant meads,

No grinning imps deform our blazing hearth;

Beneath the kelpie's fang no traveller bleeds,

Nor gory vampyre taints our holy earth,

Nor spectres stalk to frighten harmless mirth,

Nor tortured demon howls adown the gale;

Fair reason checks these monsters in their birth.

Yet have we lay of love and horrid tale

Would dim the manliest eye and make the bravest pale.

Where is the stony eye that hath not shed

Compassion's heart-drops o'er the sweet Mc Rea?

Through midnight's wilds by savage bandits led,

"Her heart is sad -- her love is far away!"

Elate that lover waits the promised day

When he shall clasp his blooming bride again --

Shine on, sweet visions! dreams of rapture, play!

Soon the cold corse of her he loved in vain

Shall blight his withered heart and fire his frenzied brain.

Romantic Wyoming! could none be found

Of all that rove thy Eden groves among,

To wake a native harp's untutored sound,

And give thy tale of woe the voice of song?

Oh! if description's cold and nerveless tongue

From stranger harps such hallowed strains could call,

How doubly sweet the descant wild had rung,

From one who, lingering round thy ruined wall,

Had plucked thy mourning flowers and wept thy timeless fall.

The Huron chief escaped from foemen nigh,

His frail bark launches on Niagara's tides,

"Pride in his port, defiance in his eye,"

Singing his song of death the warrior glides;

In vain they yell along the river sides,

In vain the arrow from its sheaf is torn,

Calm to his doom the willing victim rides,

And, till adown the roaring torrent borne,

Mocks them with gesture proud, and laughs their rage to scorn.

But if the charms of daisied hill and vale,

And rolling flood, and towering rock sublime,

If warrior deed or peasant's lowly tale

Of love or woe should fail to wake the rhyme,

If to the wildest heights of song you climb,

(Tho' some who know you less, might cry, beware!)

Onward! I say -- your strains shall conquer time;

Give your bright genius wing, and hope to share

Imagination's worlds -- the ocean, earth, and air.

Arouse, my friend -- let vivid fancy soar,

Look with creative eye on nature's face,

Bid airy sprites in wild Niagara roar,

And view in every field a fairy race.

Spur thy good Pacolet to speed apace,

And spread a train of nymphs on every shore;

Or if thy muse would woo a ruder grace,

The Indian's evil Manitou's explore,

And rear the wondrous tale of legendary lore.

Away! to Susquehannah's utmost springs,

Where, throned in mountain mist, Areouski reigns,

Shrouding in lurid clouds his plumeless wings,

And sternly sorrowing o'er his tribes remains;

His was the arm, like comet ere it wanes

That tore the streamy lightnings from the skies,

And smote the mammoth of the southern plains;

Wild with dismay the Creek affrighted flies,

While in triumphant pride Kanawa's eagles rise.

Or westward far, where dark Miami wends,

Seek that fair spot as yet to fame unknown;

Where, when the vesper dew of heaven descends,

Soft music breathes in many a melting tone,

At times so sadly sweet it seems the moan

Of some poor Ariel penanced in the rock;

Anon a louder burst -- a scream! a groan!

And now amid the tempest's reeling shock,

Gibber, and shriek, and wail -- and fiend-like laugh and mock.

Or climb the Pallisado's lofty brows,

Were dark Omana waged the war of hell,

Till, waked to wrath, the mighty spirit rose

And pent the demons in their prison cell;

Full on their head the uprooted mountain fell,

Enclosing all within its horrid womb

Straight from the teeming earth the waters swell,

And pillared rocks arise in cheerless gloom

Around the drear abode -- their last eternal tomb!

Be these your future themes -- no more resign

The soul of song to laud your lady's eyes;

Go! kneel a worshipper at nature's shrine!

For you her fields are green, and fair her skies!

For you her rivers flow, her hills arise!

And will you scorn them all, to pour forth tame

And heartless lays of feigned or fancied sighs?

Still will you cloud the muse? nor blush for shame

To cast away renown, and hide your head from fame?

Joseph Rodman Drake

The American Flag

When Freedom, from her mountain height,

Unfurled her standard to the air,

She tore the azure robe of night,

And set the stars of glory there!

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes

The milky baldric of the skies,

And striped its pure, celestial white

With streakings of the morning light;

Then, from his mansion in the sun,

She called her eagle-bearer down,

And gave into his mighty hand

The symbol of her chosen land!

Majestic monarch of the cloud!

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,

To hear the tempest trumping loud,

And see the lightning lances driven,

When strive the warriors of the storm,

And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven,--

Child of the Sun! to see thee 'tis given

To guard the banner of the free,

To hover in the sulphur smoke,

To ward away the battle-stroke,

And bid its blendings shine afar,

Like rainbows on the cloud of war,

The harbingers of victory!

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,

The sign of hope and triumph high!

When speaks the signal-trumpet tone,

And the long line comes gleaming on,

Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,

Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,

Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn

To where thy sky-born glories burn,

And, as his springing steps advance,

Catch war and vengeance from the glance.

And when the cannon-mouthings loud

Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud,

And gory sabres rise and fall

Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall,

Then shall thy meteor glances flow,

And cowering foes shall shrink beneath

Each gallant arm that strikes below

That lovely messenger of death.

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave

Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;

When death, careering on the gale,

Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,

And frighted waves rush wildly back

Before the broadside's reeling rack,

Each dying wanderer of the sea

Shall look at once to heaven and thee,

And smile to see thy splendors fly

In triumph o'er his closing eye.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home,

By angel hands to valor given!

Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,

And all thy hues were born in heaven.

Forever float that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foe but falls before us,

With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us!

Joseph Rodman Drake

Song

Oh! go to sleep, my baby dear,

And I will hold thee on my knee;

Thy mother's in her winding sheet,

And thou art all that's left to me.

My hairs are white with grief and age,

I've borne the weight of every ill,

And I would lay me with my child,

But thou art left to love me still.

Should thy false father see thy face,

The tears would fill his cruel e'e,

But he has scorned thy mother's woe,

And he shall never look on thee:

But I will rear thee up alone,

And with me thou shalt aye remain;

For thou wilt have thy mother's smile,

And I shall see my child again.

Joseph Rodman Drake

Song

Oh the tear is in my eye, and my heart it is breaking,

Thou hast fled from me, Connor, and left me forsaken;

Bright and warm was our morning, but soon has it faded,

For I gave thee a true heart, and thou hast betrayed it.

Thy footsteps I followed in darkness and danger,

From the home of my love to the land of the stranger;

Thou wert mine through the tempest, the blight, and the burning;

Could I think thou wouldst change when the morn was returning.

Yet peace to thy heart, though from mine it must sever,

May she love thee as I loved, alone and for ever;

I may weep for thy loss, but my faith is unshaken,

And the heart thou hast widowed will bless thee in breaking.

Joseph Rodman Drake

Written in a Lady's Album

Grant me, I cried, some spell of art,

To turn with all a lover's care,

That spotless page, my Eva's heart,

And write my burning wishes there.

But Love, by faithless Laia taught

How frail is woman's holiest vow,

Look'd down, while grace attempered thought

Sate serious on his baby brow.

"Go! blot her album," cried the sage,

"There none but bards a place may claim;

But woman's heart's a worthless page,

Where every fool may write his name."

Until by time or fate decayed,

That line and leaf shall never part;

Ah! who can tell how soon shall fade

The lines of love from woman's heart.

Joseph Rodman Drake

Lines To A Lady, on Hearing Her Sing "Cushlamachree"

Yes! heaven protect thee, thou gem of the ocean;

Dear land of my sires, though distant thy shores;

Ere my heart cease to love thee, its latest emotion,

The last dying throbs of its pulse must be o'er.

And dark were the bosom, and cold and unfeeling,

That tamely could listen unmoved at the call,

When woman, the warm soul of melody stealing,

Laments for her country and sighs o'er its fall.

Sing on, gentle warbler, the tear-drop appearing

Shall fall for the woes of the queen of the sea;

And the spirit that breathes in the harp of green Erin,

Descending, shall hail thee her "Cushlamachree."

Joseph Rodman Drake

Lines Written on Leaving New Rochelle

Whene'er thy wandering footstep bends

Its pathway to the Hermit tree,

Among its cordial band of friends,

Sweet Mary! wilt thou number me?

Though all too few the hours have roll'd

That saw the stranger linger here,

In memory's volume let them hold

One little spot to friendship dear.

I oft have thought how sweet 'twould be

To steal the bird of Eden's art;

And leave behind a trace of me

On every kind and friendly heart,

And like the breeze in fragrance rolled,

To gather as I wander by,

From every soul of kindred mould,

Some touch of cordial sympathy.

'Tis the best charm in life's dull dream,

To feel that yet there linger here

Bright eyes that look with fond esteem,

And feeling hearts that hold me dear.

Joseph Rodman Drake

Hope

See through yon cloud that rolls in wrath,

One little star benignant peep,

To light along their trackless path

The wanderers of the stormy deep.

And thus, oh Hope! thy lovely form

In sorrow's gloomy night shall be

The sun that looks through cloud and storm

Upon a dark and moonless sea.

When heaven is all serene and fair,

Full many a brighter gem we meet;

'Tis when the tempest hovers there,

Thy beam is most divinely sweet.

The rainbow, when the sun declines,

Like faithless friend will disappear;

Thy light, dear star! more brightly shines

When all is wail and weeping here.

And though Aurora's stealing beam

May wake a morning of delight,

'Tis only thy consoling beam

Will smile amid affliction's night.

Joseph Rodman Drake

Fragment

I

Tuscara! thou art lovely now,

Thy woods, that frown'd in sullen strength

Like plumage on a giant's brow,

Have bowed their massy pride at length.

The rustling maize is green around,

The sheep is in the Congar's bed;

And clear the ploughman's whistlings sound

Where war-whoop's pealed o'er mangled dead.

Fair cots around thy breast are set,

Like pearls upon a coronet;

And in Aluga's vale below

The gilded grain is moving slow

Like yellow moonlight on the sea,

Where waves are swelling peacefully;

As beauty's breast, when quiet dreams

Come tranquilly and gently by;

When all she loves and hopes for seems

To float in smiles before her eye.

And hast thou lost the grandeur rude

That made me breathless, when at first

Upon my infant sight you burst,

The monarch of the solitude?

No; there is yet thy turret rock,

The watch-tower of the skies, the lair

Of Indian Gods, who, in the shock

Of bursting thunders, slumbered there;

And trim thy bosom is arrayed

In labour's green and glittering vest,

And yet thy forest locks of shade

Shake stormy on that turret crest.

Still hast thou left the rocks, the floods,

And nature is the loveliest then,

When first amid her caves and woods

She feels the busy tread of men;

When every tree, and bush, and flower,

Springs wildly in its native grace;

Ere art exerts her boasted power,

That brightened only to deface.

Yes! thou art lovelier now than ever;

How sweet 'twould be, when all the air

In moonlight swims, along thy river

To couch upon the grass, and hear

Niagara's everlasting voice,

Far in the deep blue west away;

That dreaming and poetic noise

We mark not in the glare of day,

Oh! how unlike its torrent-cry,

When o'er the brink the tide is driven,

As if the vast and sheeted sky

In thunder fell from heaven.

Were I but there, the daylight fled,

With that smooth air, the stream, the sky,

And lying on that minstrel bed

Of nature's own embroidery

With those long tearful willows o'er me,

That weeping fount, that solemn light,

With scenes of sighing tales before me,

And one green, maiden grave in sight;

How mournfully the strain would rise

Of that true maid, whose fate can yet

Draw rainy tears from stubborn eyes;

From lids that ne'er before were wet.

She lies not here, but that green grave

Is sacred from the plough -- and flowers,

Snow-drops, and valley-lilies, wave

Amid the grass; and other showers

Than those of heaven have fallen there.

Joseph Rodman Drake

To --

When that eye of light shall in darkness fall,

And thy bosom be shrouded in death's cold pall,

When the bloom of that rich red lip shall fade,

And thy head on its pillow of dust be laid;

Oh! then thy spirit shall see how true

Are the holy vows I have breathed to you;

My form shall moulder thy grave beside,

And in the blue heavens I'll seek my bride.

Then we'll tell, as we tread yon azure sphere,

Of the woes we have known while lingering here;

And our spirits shall joy that, their pilgrimage o'er,

They have met in the heavens to sever no more.

Joseph Rodman Drake

Lines

Day gradual fades, in evening gray,

Its last faint beam hath fled,

And sinks the sun's declining ray

In ocean's wavy bed.

So o'er the loves and joys of youth

Thy waves, Indifference, roll;

So mantles round our days of truth

That death-pool of the soul.

Spreads o'er the heavens the shadowy night

Her dim and shapeless form,

So human pleasures, frail and light,

Are lost in passion's storm.

So fades the sunshine of the breast,

So passion's dreamings fall,

So friendship's fervours sink to rest,

Oblivion shrouds them all.

Joseph Rodman Drake

To Eva

A beam upon the myrtle fell

From dewy evening's purest sky,

'Twas like the glance I love so well,

Dear Eva, from thy moonlight eye.

I looked around the summer grove,

On every tree its lustre shone;

For all had felt that look of love

The silly myrtle deemed its own.

Eva! behold thine image there,

As fair, as false thy glances fall;

But who the worthless smile would share

That sheds its light alike on all.

Joseph Rodman Drake

To a Lady with a Withered Violet

Though fate upon this faded flower

His withering hand has laid,

Its odour'd breath defies his power,

Its sweets are undecayed.

And thus, although thy warbled strains

No longer wildly thrill,

The memory of the song remains,

Its soul is with me still.

Joseph Rodman Drake

Bronx

I sat me down upon a green bank-side,

Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river,

Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide,

Like parting friends who linger while they sever;

Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready,

Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy.

Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow

Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes,

Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow,

Or the fine frost-work which young winter freezes;

When first his power in infant pastime trying,

Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying.

From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling,

And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green,

Bright ising-stars the little beach was spangling,

The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen

Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded,

Left on some morn, when light flashed in their eyes unheeded.

The hum-bird shook his sun-touched wings around,

The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat;

The antic squirrel capered on the ground

Where lichens made a carpet for his feet:

Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle

Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle.

There were dark cedars with loose mossy tresses,

White powdered dog-trees, and stiff hollies flaunting

Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses,

Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting

A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden

Shining beneath dropt lids the evening of her wedding.

The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn,

Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em,

The winding of the merry locust's horn,

The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom:

Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling,

Oh! 'twas a ravishing spot formed for a poet's dwelling.

And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand

Again in the dull world of earthly blindness?

Pained with the pressure of unfriendly hands,

Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness?

Left I for this thy shades, were none intrude,

To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude?

Yet I will look upon thy face again,

My own romantic Bronx, and it will be

A face more pleasant than the face of men.

Thy waves are old companions, I shall see

A well-remembered form in each old tree,

And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy.

Joseph Rodman Drake

Song

'Tis not the beam of her bright blue eye,

Nor the smile of her lip of rosy dye,

Nor the dark brown wreaths of her glossy hair,

Nor her changing cheek, so rich and rare.

Oh! these are the sweets of a fairy dream,

The changing hues of an April sky.

They fade like dew in the morning beam,

Or the passing zephyr's odour'd sigh.

'Tis a dearer spell that bids me kneel,

'Tis the heart to love, and the soul to feel:

'Tis the mind of light, and the spirit free,

And the bosom that heaves alone for me.

Oh! these are the sweets that kindly stay

From youth's gay morning to age's night;

When beauty's rainbow tints decay,

Love's torch still burns with a holy light.

Soon will the bloom of the fairest fade,

And love will droop in the cheerless shade,

Or if tears should fall on his wing of joy,

It will hasten the flight of the laughing boy.

But oh! the light of the constant soul

Nor time can darken nor sorrow dim;

Though woe may weep in life's mingled bowl,

Love still shall hover around its brim.

Joseph Rodman Drake

To Sarah

I

One happy year has fled, Sall,

Since you were all my own,

The leaves have felt the autumn blight,

The wintry storm has blown.

We heeded not the cold blast,

Nor the winter's icy air;

For we found our climate in the heart,

And it was summer there.

The summer's sun is bright, Sall,

The skies are pure in hue;

But clouds will sometimes sadden them,

And dim their lovely blue;

And clouds may come to us, Sall,

But sure they will not stay;

For there's a spell in fond hearts

To chase their gloom away.

In sickness and in sorrow

Thine eyes were on me still,

And there was comfort in each glance

To charm the sense of ill.

And were they absent now, Sall,

I'd seek my bed of pain,

And bless each pang that gave me back

Those looks of love again.

Oh, pleasant is the welcome kiss,

When day's dull round is o'er,

And sweet the music of the step

That meets me at the door.

Though worldly cares may visit us,

I reck not when they fall,

While I have thy kind lips, my Sall,

To smile away them all.

Joseph Rodman Drake

B A C K