CANTO I .
Come , faithful memory of long vanished years,
And kindly lead me to the quiet shade
Where lives the past, its sunshine and its tears,
And gushing fountains murmur through the glade.
There-oft in childhood have I careless strayed,
When hope's young blossoms seemed to bloom for me;
And while their leaves — just op'ning — I surveyed,
How would my bosom thrill with ecstasy,
My Friend, to know thee near — thy smiling glance to see!
By thee approved, I asked, I wished no more; —
Through mazes dark thy cheering voice hath led;
Thou wert my guide o'er paths untrod before,
Again I venture in those paths to tread:
The Muse of Song her wings hath o'er me spread;
My lute, impatient, waits its notes to swell:
Departing day's last hour will soon have sped —
The hour in which I love on absent ones to dwell.
Wilt thou accept, my friend for ever dear,
The little volume which to thee I bring?
This humble pledge of gratitude sincere
Is Friendship's purest, holiest offering.
My harp for thee would tune its sweetest string,
And yet its tones — how tremulous and weak!
These lips, alas! in vain presume to sing:
There are emotions words may never speak;
They flow but in the tear that silent wets the cheek.
'T WAS night: the conqueror's work was done,
His victor garland proudly won;
And on the crimson battle-plain,
Were strewn the wounded and the slain.
The clash of arms was heard no more,
And hushed the cannon's pealing roar:
His weary watch the sentry kept,
While in his tent the hero slept.
O Monterey! the morning light
Beheld thee towering in thy might:
The crest hath fallen from thy brow,
And what avails thy splendor now?
Thy palaces with pomp arrayed,
At eve a mould'ring pile were laid.
Mark where thy vanquished sons have bled —
Yet weep not o'er their blood-stained bed —
Weep for the living, not the dead.
The moon, with pale and sickly beam,
Looked down upon the carnage seen:
The breeze in fitful moans was heard,
And loudly shrieked the carrion bird,
As if exulting o'er its prey
On the red field of Monterey.
Now tolled the solemn midnight bell,
To many a soul a parting knell:
The warrior started at the sound; —
His war-stained sword was quickly drawn,
As if the foeman's blast had blown;
Then all was silence, deep, profound.
Who hath not seen the threatening cloud
Come like a black and dismal shroud? —
The warring elements contend,
As if in wrath the sky to rend.
Who hath not watched the lightning's flash,
And heard the mighty thunder's crash?
The nodding pine, the giant oak,
Must fall beneath its fearful stroke.
Thus, when in battle stern arrayed,
Fierce gleams the warrior's deadly blade,
That weapon, by a single blow,
May lay the bravest hero low.
O! who could pass unheeded by
Th' encumbered field where thousands lie?
Or who the falling tear would stay,
By Pity dropped o'er Monterey?
How many a youth, of talents rare,
Hath in a moment perished there!
And he who sought a deathless name
Hears not the echo of his fame;
His heart, with high emotions filled,
Hath ceased to beat, each pulse is stilled.
The faithful son of Mexico
That fell beneath Columbia's blow,
Lies pale beside his dreaded foe.
Their glazing eyes malignant met,
Ere the last ray of life had set;
They hated till their feeble breath
Was stifled by the hand of death.
Come , faithful memory of long vanished years,
And kindly lead me to the quiet shade
Where lives the past, its sunshine and its tears,
And gushing fountains murmur through the glade.
There-oft in childhood have I careless strayed,
When hope's young blossoms seemed to bloom for me;
And while their leaves — just op'ning — I surveyed,
How would my bosom thrill with ecstasy,
My Friend, to know thee near — thy smiling glance to see!
By thee approved, I asked, I wished no more; —
Through mazes dark thy cheering voice hath led;
Thou wert my guide o'er paths untrod before,
Again I venture in those paths to tread:
The Muse of Song her wings hath o'er me spread;
My lute, impatient, waits its notes to swell:
Departing day's last hour will soon have sped —
The hour in which I love on absent ones to dwell.
Wilt thou accept, my friend for ever dear,
The little volume which to thee I bring?
This humble pledge of gratitude sincere
Is Friendship's purest, holiest offering.
My harp for thee would tune its sweetest string,
And yet its tones — how tremulous and weak!
These lips, alas! in vain presume to sing:
There are emotions words may never speak;
They flow but in the tear that silent wets the cheek.
'T WAS night: the conqueror's work was done,
His victor garland proudly won;
And on the crimson battle-plain,
Were strewn the wounded and the slain.
The clash of arms was heard no more,
And hushed the cannon's pealing roar:
His weary watch the sentry kept,
While in his tent the hero slept.
O Monterey! the morning light
Beheld thee towering in thy might:
The crest hath fallen from thy brow,
And what avails thy splendor now?
Thy palaces with pomp arrayed,
At eve a mould'ring pile were laid.
Mark where thy vanquished sons have bled —
Yet weep not o'er their blood-stained bed —
Weep for the living, not the dead.
The moon, with pale and sickly beam,
Looked down upon the carnage seen:
The breeze in fitful moans was heard,
And loudly shrieked the carrion bird,
As if exulting o'er its prey
On the red field of Monterey.
Now tolled the solemn midnight bell,
To many a soul a parting knell:
The warrior started at the sound; —
His war-stained sword was quickly drawn,
As if the foeman's blast had blown;
Then all was silence, deep, profound.
Who hath not seen the threatening cloud
Come like a black and dismal shroud? —
The warring elements contend,
As if in wrath the sky to rend.
Who hath not watched the lightning's flash,
And heard the mighty thunder's crash?
The nodding pine, the giant oak,
Must fall beneath its fearful stroke.
Thus, when in battle stern arrayed,
Fierce gleams the warrior's deadly blade,
That weapon, by a single blow,
May lay the bravest hero low.
O! who could pass unheeded by
Th' encumbered field where thousands lie?
Or who the falling tear would stay,
By Pity dropped o'er Monterey?
How many a youth, of talents rare,
Hath in a moment perished there!
And he who sought a deathless name
Hears not the echo of his fame;
His heart, with high emotions filled,
Hath ceased to beat, each pulse is stilled.
The faithful son of Mexico
That fell beneath Columbia's blow,
Lies pale beside his dreaded foe.
Their glazing eyes malignant met,
Ere the last ray of life had set;
They hated till their feeble breath
Was stifled by the hand of death.