Classic Poem

THE BURNING.

I.

The morn returns — but well-a-way!
Comes not for me the welcome day.
No blush of spring's fair vernal bloom,
No summer rose in rich perfume,
No flocks that in the meadows play,
Nor lowing herds that devious stray,
Nor sparkling centinel of night,
Shall ever greet my waken'd sight:
But dark my ever during way,
Shut from the golden light of day;
I know nor sun, nor star, nor moon,
Nor midnight from the blaze of noon;
The captive in his dungeon dark
Preserves of hope a brilliant spark,
Which like some mild benignant star
Beckons the trembler from afar,
To happy scenes of dear delight,
To sunshine, liberty, and light.
But I, no such fair vision see,
The torch of Hope burns not for me;
In a dark world, aye doom'd to roam
Without a friend, a hope, a home.

Yet why complain? in yonder skies
A sure and certain refuge lies.
There, when my dark, dark course is run,
I shall behold a glorious sun;
A world ethereal, fair and bright,
And forms of uncreated light;
Spirits that glide through earth and sky,
Unseen by any mortal eye;
And never more in darkness roam,
Without a friend, a hope, a home.

II.

Gather'd the shades of gloomy night,
And hid the world from human sight;
The chilly dews of midnight fell,
When goblins weave the witching spell,
When plundering caitiffs prowl around,
And print with noiseless step the ground,
And nothing wakes but guilt or woe,
Or studious wight with thoughtful brow,
Or drunkard nodding o'er the bowl,
Or rascal wolf on midnight prowl.

III.

Childe Cockburn saw with grim delight
The gloom of that dark, pitchy night:
It minded him of olden time,
When in his early manhood's prime,
In border raid, he sallied out,
And put the sleeping fold to rout;
Or rous'd some unsuspecting wight
With slogan yell, or blazing light,
Which, as its circling volumes play,
Gives him good heed to run away.

IV.

Now swift around his order flew,
To muster all the valiant crew,
Who, save the centinels, that slow
Pac'd o'er the deckward to and fro,
Were fast asleep in birth below.
Rous'd every soul and rubb'd their eyes,
In hope to see a gallant prize;
Some noble coaster of the bay,
Laden with oysters or new hay.
Childe Cockburn with an out-stretch'd hand
Deliver'd thus his high command:

V.

" Ye British tars! who, man to man,
" Beat the stout Yankies when you can,
" Who o'er the ocean, far and wide,
" In power imperial fearless ride,
" And, uncontroll'd, from neutrals steal
" Their sailors for the general weal!

VI.

" O listen, listen, bullies gay,
" Of hardy feats of arms I tell,
" And when you've listen'd, speed away,
" Yon little Gallic town to quell.

" Moor, moor the barge! ye gallant crew,
" Moor, moor the barge! again I say,
" Methinks I scent the morning dew,
" And not a moment must we stay.

" The stars begin to twinkle now,
" The tints of morning streak the sky,
" The vapour on yon mountain's brow
" Forbodes that tell-tale morn is nigh.

" Up, and away! my lads with speed,
" Swing battle blade, toss burning brand;
" For lo! the fire-king has decreed,
" Yon town must blaze beneath our hand."

VII.

In silence now they go on board
The gallant barge with rockets stor'd,
The muffled oars are still as death,
And every sailor holds his breath.
Childe Cockburn carried in his hand
A rocket, and a burning brand,
And waving o'er his august head
The red-cross standard proudly spread,
Whence hung by silken tassel fair
A bloody scalp of human hair,
Emblem of that pure Christian band,
Which binds the savage hand in hand
With the " great bulwark of our faith" —
As Caleb Strong devoutly saith.

VIII.

The blinking morn began to peep
From eastern skies down on the deep,
And cast a grey uncertain light
On the dark bosom of the night,
Just as the gallant barges bore
Childe Cockburn's powers bump on the shore.
The stalwart knight with furious heat
Jump'd on the strand, stiff on two feet;
And eager as the royal beast,
Who on hot carnage loves to feast,
Dauntless directed his swift way,
To where some twelve militia lay,
Safe as a thief behind a wall,
Attending to their country's call.

IX.

The centinel who, half asleep,
From veiled lids would take a peep,
Saw eager Cockburn thundering on,
And 'gan I wot to quake anon:
In tribulation bawl'd he out
For help to his companions stout,
Who bravely to his rescue came,
And taking most deliberate aim,
At four miles distance, with shut eye,
At Cockburn and his crew let fly.
I've heard a true eye-witness say,
Twelve canvas ducks, at morning play,
By that discharge all found their grave,
And with their broad bills bit the wave.

X.

But true it is, that some stray shot
Sent one of Cockburn's men to pot;
And the brave lads, who wisely thought
A victory so dearly bought
Would give more cause of woe than weal
To those who only came to steal,
Agreed to quit the bloody fray;
So donn'd their arms and ran away,
To tell, with self-approving glee,
Their wondrous feats of chivalry.

XI.

By this time all the town was rous'd,
And not a living soul was hous'd;
The foeman rais'd the yelling shout,
The Congreve rockets whizz'd about;
The fiery missives dreadful gleam'd,
The half-awaken'd women scream'd;
Feebly the frighten'd infant cried,
And uproar lorded far and wide.
Was none to quell the foeman's heat,
And stop the tide of wild defeat?
None to arrest the caitiff band,
Or quench the wrathful burning brand?

XII.

O'Neale from sea-girt Erin's isle,
Where bulls are made that make us smile,
With high imperial lineage grac'd,
Back his illustrious fathers trac'd
To great O'Neale, who, like king Log,
Erst reign'd o'er many a fen and bog,
In Munster or in Leinster fair,
Or somewhere else, I know not where.
Such was his birth, as saith dame Fame,
And from Milesian blood he came;
That blood which in hot current flows,
Unmix'd through all the race of O's —
O'Rourke, O'Connor, and O'Dwyer,
And the round O's of Connaughtshire —
That blood which flow'd in freedom's cause,
For equal rights and equal laws,
And boils whene'er its country's wrong
Is sung in melancholy song.

XIII.

O'Neale from hard oppression's hand
A refuge sought in this fair land;
This nestling corner of the earth,
Where every plant of foreign birth
Blossoms in rich luxuriance rare,
But seldom roots its fibres there.
Here flock the growth of every clime,
The victims of this iron time,
As to a land of calm delight,
Where every honest living wight
Can taste the bliss of plenteous glee,
And go his ways in liberty:

XIV.

Here comes in search of glittering pelf
Full many an avaricious elf,
Condemn'd through toiling world to roam
Without a country or a home,
Save that in which his stinted mind
The loadstone of his heart can find:
No early recollection charms,
No sacred love of country warms,
But ossified to its core,
The bloodless, nerveless heart no more
Beats with one languid throb to see
The land of its nativity.
In search of this accursed meed
He's now a Pole, a Dane, a Swede,
A Portugueze, a renegade,
A traitor — any thing for trade.

XV.

Of all the stranger wights who share
Our freedom and our native air;
Who here a welcome haven find
From the rude storm they left behind,
The storm which sweeps old Europe's coast,
Like that which quelled Pharaoh's host;
Who glitter in our western sphere,
In the bright good they gather here,
How few one grateful impulse feel,
One wish for our kind country's weal!
How many, like the fabled snake,
The bond of benefits dare break,
And vivified in the gleam
Of fortune's bright and warming beam,
Turn to the breast, where long they fed,
That pillow'd long their outcast head,
To blast it with their poisonous breath,
And sting the quivering heart to death!

XVI.

Not so O'Neale, who in his heart
Warm took his foster-country's part,
And try'd to rouse a losel wight,
Who in his cabin lay that night:
A tall, stout, rosy, lusty youth,
Who canted much of gospel truth,
And boasted of his " moral sense,"
His " learning" and " intelligence;"
One, as was learn'd from divers hints
Of Quincy's wise constituents,
Who think it wrong to raise their voice,
Or any other way rejoice,
When victory sits on our arms,
And every patriot bosom warms.

XVII.

Of great Miles Standish's blood he came,
And bore that mighty hero's name:
With this, in pious union, glow'd
Rare blood, that long time past had flow'd
In wizard vein, as story tells,
Of Georgy Burroughs, hang'd at Wells,
For conjuring up a wicked light,
That mock'd a maid's keen searching sight.

XVIII.

With ardent zeal O'Neale essay'd
To stimulate this moral blade,
And strike a spark of patriot ire,
To light his paltry kitchen fire;
But the asbestos of his soul,
Nor brimstone match, nor burning coal,
Lightning, nor Archimedes' rays
Could kindle into one poor blaze.
" In sooth his country well he lov'd,
" And if good Caleb Strong approv'd,
" Or 'Siah Quincy thought it right —
" Gramercy! then you'd see him fight."
No man, if you would take his word,
More readily would draw his sword,
Or fight with more determin'd glee,
In a just cause forsooth than he;
But he must see occasion good,
Before he shed one drop of blood:
" Nay more," the whiffling caitiff cried,
" Must have the law fast on my side."
Sad recreant wight! contempt and scorn
Shall wring thy bosom all forlorn,
If such a leaden heart can feel
What's sharper than the temper'd steel.

XIX.

Who would not fight with heart and hand,
In any cause, for such a land,
Ne'er may the dastard traitor know
The joys from sacred home that flow;
Nor even for one moment prove
Man's dear respect, or woman's love;
Ne'er may he taste the sober bliss,
To live in such a spot as this;
The poor man's long sought paradise,
Where nature's choicest blessings rise,
And plenty, with a lavish hand,
Winnows her gifts o'er all the land;
Where yellow harvests bounteous wave
Old Europe's starving sons to save;
And where, in the wide world, alone
" Sweet Harry's" gen'rous wish is known:
Ne'er may the coward caitiff know
A country where such blessings flow;
But pine in Afric's scorching sand,
Or freeze on Lapland's ice-bound strand;
Or crouch beneath a tyrant's throne,
Nor dare to call his soul his own;
Or live at home , to know far worse,
The generous soul's most bitter curse;
Live in his native clime abhorr'd,
And dead, go down in black record,
A slave, who would not lift his hand
To succour his own native land.

XX.

Valiant O'Neale, amid the crowd,
Cry'd out " by Jasus," oft and loud*;
But finding that it would not do
To fright the plunder-loving crew,
Retir'd behind a neighbouring wall,
And swore as loud as he could bawl,
Till Cockburn's men, as legends say,
Kidnapp'd, and carried him away.
Thrice valiant wight! of mighty fame,
And, far as swearing goes, true game;
I've heard, and I believe it true,
A thousand heroes, just like you,
Had put Childe Cockburn's prowess down,
And very likely sav'd the town.
* Mr. S — — here seems to insinuate that O'Neale distinguished himself only by making a great noise, and swearing lustily. Whether this injustice of the poet proceeds from some remains of the old grudge arising from the dispute about Ossian, or about the honour of peopling the two countries, the Editor cannot tell. This much is pretty certain, that he has not given due credit to O'Neale for his superior prowess. It has been clearly ascertained, that he killed two of the twelve canvas back ducks, mentioned in the poem; and it is, moreover, the general opinion in the neighbourhood of Havre de Grace, that he would have killed several of the British, had he not, by a very excusable blunder, shut both eyes intead of one, whenever he pulled the trigger. Editor .

XXI.

But vain was all! the rockets fly
Like stars athwart the summer sky,
And soon a curling tide of smoke
From many a cottage blackening broke:
Then might you see the bursting fire
Red'ning, and spreading higher, higher,
Until its volume seem'd to rise
To the blue dome of yonder skies:
Then might you hear the matron's shriek,
The cry of infant, faint and weak,
The crackling timber as it fell,
And the brave Briton's Slogan yell,
As prowling mid the fire he glides,
Like spirit that in flame resides;
All mingling in one chorus drear,
And smiting on the startled ear.

XXII.

The distant peasant hears the sound,
And starting with elastic bound,
Hies to the mountain's bright'ning head,
And sees the fiery ruin spread;
And marks the red and angry glare
Of water, sky, and earth, and air.
Seem'd Susquehanna's wave on fire,
And red with conflagration dire;
The spreading bay's ensanguin'd flood
Seem'd stain'd with tint of human blood:
O'er Cecil County, far and wide,
Each tree, and rock, and stream was spied;
And distant windows brightly gleam'd,
As if the setting sun had beam'd.

XXIII.

The Elkton burgher rais'd his head
To see what made the sky so red;
From Ararat the falcon sail'd;
The owl at lonely distance wail'd;
The gaunt wolf far adown the dale
Loaded with loud lament the gale,
As plaining that the morning's prime
Had come that day before its time;
The wild deer started in the wood,
And all on tiptoe listening stood
To hear the yell, so stern and drear,
That smote upon his startled ear;
But when he saw the raging fire
Spring up the sky, and then retire,
Now spread o'er ether, quick advance,
And now o'er heav'n's blue concave dance,
With furious bound he hied away,
And hid him from the light of day;
Far in the distant forest green,
Where fire, or man, was never seen.

XXIV.

The waning flame is waxing low,
'Tis all one smoking ruin now:
The blacken'd walls, the charred pine,
No more in blazing splendour shine;
And the once animated scene
Is now as if it ne'er had been:
Where late the passing trav'ller view'd
A little nest of houses strew'd,
Was nothing now but mouldering wall,
Already nodding to its fall;
As if old Time, in wrathful spite,
Had silent come that fatal night,
And did, to shew his wondrous power,
The work of years, in one sad hour.

XXV.

No more beheld the busy show
Of people passing to and fro,
On business or on pleasure bent,
With smiling look of calm content:
But here and there might now be seen,
The black and ruin'd walls between,
A ragged urchin prowling pass
To scratch among the smoking mass,
And search with keen inquiring eye
Some precious relic to espy.

XXVI.

And many a houseless wretch was seen
Wending their way across the green,
With slow and lingering step, to view
The havoc made by lawless crew.
Alas! where shall the wanderers roam
To find a refuge and a home?
Will those who celebrate the feats
Of Russian boors and British fleets,
And, universal patriots grown,
Feast for all victories — but our own —
Will these be just, and make amends
For the rude havoc of their friends?
No, rather would they task their mind
Excuses for such acts to find,
And justify the lawless feats
Of British tars and British fleets.

XXVII.

As tottering near the smoking heap
The houseless matron bends to weep,
Methinks I hear her sighing say,
As turning in despair away:
" Are these the gallant tars so long
" The burthen of their country's song?
" These they, whose far resounding name
" Fills the obstreperous trump of Fame?
" Who lord it o'er the subject wave,
" And France and all her prowess brave?
" These, who such deeds of glory wrought,
" When Blake, and Howe, and Duncan fought?
" These, who with Nelson, Honour's son,
" The victory so often won?
" These the same Britons, fam'd of yore
" At Cressy and at Agincour?
" These, the great " bulwark" to oppose,
" Peace and religion's deadly foes?
" These, who are destin'd to restore
" Repose to Europe's harass'd shore?
" God help the while! if such they be,
" What glorious times we soon shall see!

XXVIII.

" If such they be — God help the while!
" Where send the peaceful sons of toil,
" Who take no part in that fell strife
" Which in ambition's land is rife,
" But harmless trade industrious ply,
" Nor trouble aught beneath the sky —
" To what lone scene must they retire
" To 'scape the Briton's wrathful fire?
" Where shall the matron refuge seek?
" The infant that can hardly speak?
" Where the bed-ridden and the old
" Retire from reach of Briton bold?
" Who comes in pious christian ire
" To purify the earth by fire;
" Who labours for the world's repose
" By heaping up a world of woes;
" Who points our hopes to realms of bliss,
" By making us heart-sick of this;
" And thus, as farmer Caleb saith,
" Acts AS THE " BULWARK OF OUR FAITH . " "

Hush'd is the strain, the minstrel gone;
But did he wander forth alone?
No — close by Princeton college gate
Even to this day he holds his state,
Where well his bearing you may know
By sightless eye, and head of snow.
His little garden flourishes
With salad rare and radishes;
Cabbage and cucumbers are seen,
And turnips with their tops so green;
And of the common garden stuff
The minstrel has more than enough:
His faithful dog is often seen
Waddling across the college green,
And not a little Freshman there
But pats his head with pious care:
At summer eve there gather round
The student lads, who stand astound,
And listen with attentive glee
To tales of modern chivalry,
And gallant feats of younger times,
And various wild and witching rhymes:
Once in the year he deigns to play
First fiddle on Commencement Day,
When in Joline's high stately hall
Is held the Student's ANNUAL BALL .

Scotch fiddle! fare thee well! the night dogs bark;
Their wild notes with thy dying tones contending,
Rouse from his reverie some boozy spark,
From porter house or tavern homeward wending:
Resume thy case again, thou wantest mending,
And, by worn strings make droning minstrelsy;
The squeaking tones with city vespers blending,
Mix'd with the distant hum of nightly glee,
In drowsy concert, sleepy maketh me.

Yet once again, farewell Scotch fiddle dear!
For dear thou art to hose that buy thy lay:
Ah! little reck'd I of thy tones so clear,
That scare love-making Catlings far away.
How often have I scrap'd whole nights away,
And murder'd tunes the world hath never known;
What time to dancing wights and damsels gay
I tun'd thy strings and fiddled all alone:
That I survive these nights, sweet fiddle, is thine own.

Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,
Some airy minstrel wakes thy worn-out string!
'Tis Church's ghost, come from Tartarean fire!
" Scotch ointment," stead of rosin pure he brings.
And hark! how sweet th' anointed fiddle rings!
Fainter and fainter in receding swell,
As the pure spirit spreads his singed wings,
My fingers itch to play the wizard spell,
But 'twill not be — SCOTCH FIDDLE , fare thee well!