In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear,
And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear, Which amounts to possession, time out of mind.
Then, holding the spectacles up to the court-
Your lordship observes they are made with a stradd.e,
As wide as the ridge of the nose is; in short,
Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle.
Again, would your lordship a moment suppose
('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again)
That the visage or countenance had not a Nose,
Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?
On the whole, it appears, and my argument shows
With a reasoning the court will never condemn,
That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.
Then, shifting his side, as a lawyer knows how,
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes;
But what were his arguments few people know,
For the court did not think they were equally wise.
So his lordship decreed, with a grave, solemn tone,
Decisive and clear, without one if or but-
That whenever the Nose put his spectacles on,
By day-light or candle-light-Eyes should be shut.
PHILIP OF MOUNT HOPE.
AWAY! away! I will not hear
Of aught but death or vengeance now!
By the eternal skies, I ne'er
The willing knee will cause to bow!
I will not hear a word of peace,
Nor grasp, in friendly grasp, a hand
Linked to the pale-browed stranger race
That work the ruin of our land!
Before their coming, we had ranged
Our forests and our uplands free;
Still let us keep unsold, unchanged,
The heritage of liberty!
As free as rolls the chainless stream,
Still let us roam our ancient woods!
As free as break the morning beams,
That light our mountain solitudes!
Touch not the hand they stretch to you!
The falsely proffered cup, put by!
Will you believe a coward true?
Or taste the poison-draught, to die?
Their friendship is a lurking snare;
Their honor, but an idle breath;
Their smile, the smile that traitors wear;
Their love is hate, their life is death!
Plains which your infant feet have roved.
Broad streams you skimmed in light canoe,
Green woods and glens your fathers loved-
Whom smile they for, if not for you?
And could your fathers' spirits look,
From lands where deathless verdure waves,
Nor curse the craven hearts that brook
To barter for a nation's graves?
Then raise, once more, the warrior song,
That tells despair and death are nigh!
Let the loud summons peal along,
Bending the arches of the sky!
And till your last white foe shall kneel,
And in his coward pangs expire-
Sleep-but to dream of band and steel!
Wake-but to deal in blood and fire'
THE FIELDS OF WAR.
THEY rise, by stream and yellow shore,
By mountain, moor, and fen;
By weedy rock and torrent hoar,
And lonesome forest glen!
From many a woody, moss-grown mound,
Start forth a war-worn band,
As when, of old, they caught the sound
Of hostile arms, and closed around,
To guard their native land.
Hark! to the clanging horn;
Hark! to the rolling drum!
Arms glitter in the flash of morn,
The hosts to battle come!
The serried files, the plumèd troop,
Are marshalled once again,
Along the Hudson's mountain group,
Along the Atlantic main!
On Bunker, at the dead of night,
I seem to view the raging fight,
The burning town, the smoky height,
The onset, the retreat!
And down the banks of Brandywine,
I see the levelled bayonets shine;
And lurid clouds of battle twine,
Where struggling columns meet!
Yorktown and Trenton blaze once more.
And by the Delaware's frozen shore,
The hostile guns at midnight roar,
The hostile shouts arise!
The snows of Valley-Forge grow red,
And Saratoga's field is spread
With heaps of undistinguished dead,
And filled with dying cries!
'Tis o'er; the battle-shout has died
By ocean, stream, and mountain side;
And the bright harvest, far and wide,
Waves o'er the blood-drenched field, The rank grass o'er it greenly grows, And oft the upturning shares disclose The buried arms and bones of those
Who fell, but would not yield!
Time's rolling chariot hath effaced
The very hillocks where were placed
The bodies of the dead, in haste,
When closed the furious fight.
The ancient fort and rampart-mound
Long since have settled to the ground,
On Bunker's famous height,
And the last relics of the brave
Are sinking to oblivion's grave!
ACROSS the rolling ocean
Our Pilgrim Fathers came,
And here, in rapt devotion,
Adored their Maker's name.
Amid New England's mountains
Their temple sites they chose,
And by its streams and fountains
The choral song arose.
Their hearts with freedom burning,
They felled the forests wide,
And reared the halls of learning-
New England's joy and pride;
Through scenes of toil and sadness
In faith they struggled on,
That future days of gladness
And glory might be won.
The men of noble spirit,
The Pilgrims, are at rest-
The treasures we inherit
Proclaim their memory blest!
From every valley lowly,
From mountain tops above,
Let grateful thoughts, and holy,
Rise to the God of love.
EXERCISE XXXVI.
NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD.
NEW ENGLAND's dead! New England's Lead!
On every hill they lie;
On every field of strife made red
By bloody victory.
Each valley, where the battle poured
Its red and awful tide,
Beheld the brave New England sword
With slaughter deeply dyed.
Their bones are on the northern hill,
And on the southern plain,
By brook and river, lake and rill,
And by the roaring main.
The land is holy where they fought,
And holy where they fell;
For by their blood that land was bought,
The land they loved so well.
Then glory to that valiant band,
The honored saviors of the land!
Oh! few and weak their numbers were,
A handful of brave men;
But to their God they gave their
And rushed to battle then.
The God of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory.
They left the ploughshare in the mould,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half garnered, on the plain,
And mustered, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress;
To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.
And where are ye, O fearless men?
And where are ye to-day?
I call:- the hills reply again
That ye have passed away;
That on old Bunker's lonely height,
In Trenton and in Monmouth ground, The grass grows green, the harvest bright, Above each soldier's mound!
The bugle's wild and warlike blast
Shall muster them no more;
An army now might thunder past,
And they heed not its roar.
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