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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
Could 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 Cour 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.
Is beauty ?_Thine has with thy youth departed ;
But the love-legends of thy manhood's years, And she who perished, young and broken-hearted,
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.
A gentle hill its side inclines,
Lovely in England's fadeless green,
While summer's wind blew soft and low,
A thousand years ago.
Does not the succouring ivy, keeping
As o'er a loved one sleeping ? One solitary turret grey
Still tells, in melancholy glory, The legend of the Cheviot day,
The Percy's proudest border story. That day its roof was triumph's arch;
Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome,
The music of the trump and drum ;
Welcomed her warrior home.
Wild roses by the Abbey towers
Are gay in their young bud and bloom :
A templar's knightly tomb.
Where the Cross was damped with his dying breath,
Was thick with the darts of death.
Wise with the lore of centuries,
Those giant oaks could tell,
The welcome and farewell,
The Norman's curfew-bell.
I wandered through the lofty halls
Trod by the Percys of old fame, And traced upon the chapel walls
Each high heroic name, From him
who once his standard set
o'er mosque and minaret, Glitter the Sultan's crescent m ns ; To him who, when a younger son, Fought for King George at Lexington,
A major of dragoons.
That last half stanza-it has dashed
From my warm lip the sparkling cup; The light that o'er my eyebeam flashed,
The power that bore my spirit up
Men in the coal and cattle line;
These are not the romantic times
So dazzling to the dreaming boy :
Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy:
Has called “the era of good feeling :".
And leave off cattle-stealing :
The Douglas in red herrings;
Of Rothschild or the Barings.