Moral Pieces, in Prose and Verse/On the Character of Commodore Macdonough
ON THE CHARACTER OF COMMODORE MACDONOUGH.
THE scene of death is past; the cannon's roar
Dies in faint echoes on the distant wave.
The Christian and the hero stands alone
Encircled by the slain. No flush of joy,
Or ray of triumph gilds his thoughtful brow;
For though his heart ascends in grateful praise
To Him who heard his prayer, it sighs with pain,
Lamenting o'er the woe his hand has wrought.
That bosom, which amidst the battle's rage,
Was calm and tranquil, feels the life-blood creep
Chill through its channels, and that manly cheek
Which kept its hue unblanch'd, when shrieks of death
And agony arose, is pale, and sad,
And wet with bitter tears for brethren lost.
To them he turns his eye, but meets no glance
Of answering friendship. On the deck they sleep
Pale, ghastly, silent: while the purple stream
Flows slowly ebbing, from their bosoms cold.
One short hour since, he saw them full of life,
And strength, and courage; now the northern blast
Sighs as it passes o'er them—whispering low,
"Behold the end of man!"
Nor yet for friends alone, the victor sighs,
The noble heart may mourn a fallen foe,
And do no wrong to honour; may revere
His virtues, and lament, that cruel fate
Bade those to meet so stern, who would have joy'd
To join in friendship's pure and sacred bands.
He fought not for the vain applause of man,
To light the flame of war in distant lands,
Or carry fire, and sword, and woe, and death,
Among the innocent; but nerv'd his arm,
And steel'd his ardent heart, to meet the sword
Drawn on his native land, and urg'd to blood,
By provocation strange, and the blind wrath
Of erring man. He saw a martial host
Press, with invading step, her vallies green,
Pour o'er her placid lakes the storm of war;
Saw her smooth waters darkened with the shade
Of crowding fleets; he saw the smoke arise
In heavy volumes, from those splendid domes,
Where legislation held her awful sway.
He felt her sad disgrace, and heard a voice,
Deep ton'd and piercing, call the brave to arms;
His was the heart to answer, and he rose,
With confidence in heaven, and soul prepared.
He stood the shock, and from the furnace flame
Came forth like gold. And if this scene of woe
Is still to last, may many heroes rise,
Thus bright with rays, whose source is from within,
And clad in virtue's arms.
The temper'd sword, long bath'd in blood, may break;
The shield may be destroy'd; the well aim'd dart
Err in its course; the warrior's eye grow dim;
But the firm soul, whose trust is plac'd above,
Shrinks not; tho' loud that last, dread trump should sound,
Whose warning voice shall rend the solid earth,
And give her glory to the whelming flame.