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TO A STOLEN RING.
BY N. P. WILLIS.
O For thy history now! Hadst thou a tongue
And in her holy sleep, when she has lain
I am impatient as I gaze on thee,
BY PROSPER M. WETMORE.
“Oh! could ye taste the mirth ye mar,
YE worshippers of glory!
Who bathe the earth in blood,
Upon the crimson flood,
Pause, in your march of terror!
Wo hovers o'er your path; Madness, despair, and death await
The conflict's gathering wrath !
Think ye a throne will prosper,
A nation's glory rise, When your bark is borne by a people's tears,
And wafted by their sighs ?
Look to the peaceful dwelling
Of the peasant and his race; There's joy around that lowly hearth,
There's rapture on each face.
That brow with snow is whiten’d,
Those eyes with age are dim; But his face is bright at the twilight hour
As he joins the evening hymn.
For his children there are smiling.
What a blessed sight it is
gaze on a scene like this!
Two manly youths are standing
Beside their father's chair,
Shines like a sun-beam there.
A mother's placid features
Are in that circle found, And her bosom warms with a thrill of joy
As she fondly looks around.
On! through the paths to glory,
Ye mighty conquerors ! The trumpet's voice has summon'd forth
Your legions to the wars !
Rush on, through fields of carnage,
And tread to earth the foe! Where'er your banners float above,
Let your sabres flash below!
Yet stay your march to greatness,
Your breath has been a fate ! Where is the peaceful cottage now?
Its hearth is desolate !
Upon that door no longer
The twilight shadows fall; In a shroudless grave the old man sleeps
Beneath the ruin'd wall.
Ye tore away his strong ones
On the battle field they lie:
And laid her down to die.
That form of seraph sweetness,
Where the eye enraptured gazed, Is a piteous wreck in its loveliness,
For the lost one's brain is crazed.
'Twere better she were sleeping
Within the silent tomb;
The flowers of life shall bloom!