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Loved his own people from his heart;
And, taking counsel sage,
To soothe Apollo's rage.
Quoth Lion, “ We are sinners all ;
And even, it must be confessed,
I-I am guilty as the rest.
I struggle to refrain,-
I find resistance vain.
“Now to be candid, I must own
The sheep are weak and I am strong,
The sheep have never done me wrong.
One trespass from your view,
I took the shepherd too.
" Then let us all our sins confess,
And whosesoe'er the blackest guilt, To ease my people's deep distress,
Let his atoning blood be spilt.
Your sentence freely give ;
And let my people live.”
The council with applauses rung,
To hear the Codrus of the wood ;) Though still some doubt suspended hung
If he would make his promise good.
Let us like subjects true
We all will die for you.
“But please your majesty, I deem,
Submissive to your royal grace,
That paltry, poltroon, sheepish race ;
By all-creating power :
For lions to devour.
“ And as for eating now and then
As well the shepherd as the sheep,How can that braggart breed of men
Expect with you the peace to keep ? 'Tis time their blustering boast to stem, That all the world was made for them,
And prove creation's plan ; Teach them by evidence profuse That man was made for lions' use,
Not lions made for man.”
And now the noble peers begin,
And, cheered with such examples bright, Disclosing each his secret sin,
Some midnight murder brought to light. Reynard was counsel for them all; No crime the assembly could appal,
But he could botch with paint: Hark, as his honeyed accents roll, Each tiger is a gentle soul,
Each bloodhound is a saint.
When each had told his tale in turn,
The long-eared beast of burden came,
To make confession of my shame ;
A haystack on my way :
And cropped a lock of hay.
“Oh monster ! villain !” Reynard cried
“No longer seek the victim, sire ; Nor why your subjects thus have died
To expiate Apollo's ire.”
The council with one voice decreed ;
“'What, steal another's grass !".
The victim was—the Ass.
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. [Born in 1795, died in 1868. His maternal descent was from John Eliot, "the Apostle of the Indians." He engaged in business, acting for several years as agent to the great capitalist Astor.) RED JACKET, A CHIEF OF THE INDIAN TRIBES, THE
ON LOOKING AT HIS PORTRAIT BY WEIR.
COOPER, whose name is with his country's woven,
First in her files, her Pioneer of mind-
His love for the young land he left behind ;?
Robed like the deluge rainbow, heaven-wrought,
And beautiful as its green world of thought.
As law authority, it passed nem. con. :
The most enlightened people ever known ;
In Paris, full of song, and dance, and laugh ;
There's not a bailiff or an epitaph.
We shall export our poetry and wine ;
Will sweep the seas from Zembla to the Line.
Gazing, as I, upon thy portrait now,
Its eye's dark beauty, and its thoughtful brow-
Its eye, upsoaring like an eagle's wings ;
Outrival Europe, even in our Kings ! 1 Red Jacket appeared originally in 1828, soon after the publication of J. Fenimore Cooper's Notions of the Americans.
For thou wast monarch born. Tradition's pages
Tell not the planting of thy parent tree, But that the forest tribes have bent for ages
To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee.
Thy name is princely :if no poet's magic
Ćould make Red Jacket grace an English rhyme, Though some one with a genius for the tragic
Hath introduced it in a pantomime,
Yet it is music in the language spoken
Of thine own land, and on her herald roll; As bravely fought for, and as proud a token
As Coeur de Lion's of a warrior's soul.
Thy garb—though Austria's bosom-star would frighten
That medal pale, as diamonds the dark mine, And George the Fourth wore, at his court at Brighton,
A more becoming evening dress than thine ;
Yet ’tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather,
And fitted for thy couch on field and flood, As Rob Roy's tartan for the Highland heather,
Or forest green for England's Robin Hood.
Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong,
Heroes in history, and gods in song.
But the love-legends of thy manhood's years,
Are—but I rhyme for smiles and not for tears.
Is eloquence ?-Her spell is thine that reaches
The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport; And there's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches,
The secret of their mastery- they are short.
The monarch mind, the mystery of commanding,
The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon,
The hearts of millions till they move as one :
Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded
The road to death as to a festival;
With banner-folds of glory the dark pall.
Who will believe? (Not I—for in deceiving
Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream ; I cannot spare the luxury of believing
That all things beautiful are what they seem)
Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing
Would, like the Patriarch's, soothe a dying hour, With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing,
As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlit bower ;
With look, like patient Job’s, eschewing evil ;
With motions graceful as a bird's in air ; Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil
That e’er clenched fingers in a captive's hair? That in thy breast there springs a poison fountain,
Deadlier than that where bathes the Upas-tree; And, in thy wrath, a nursing cat-o’-mountain
Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee !
And underneath that face, like summer ocean's,
Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear, Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions,
Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow-all save fear. Love-for thy land, as if she were thy daughter,
Her pipe in peace, her tomahawk in wars ; Hatred- of missionaries and cold water ;
Pride—in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars ; Hope—that thy wrongs may be, by the Great Spirit,
Remembered and revenged when thou art gone ; Sorrow—that none are left thee to inherit
Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne !
HOME of the Percy's high-born race,
Home of their beautiful and brave,
Their cradle and their grave !
As in his proud departed hours ;
Above his princely towers.