BY WILLIAM STARK, ESQ.

Who does not love, when twilight's pall of grey
Appears in mourning for the dying day,
To climb some hill, along this valley green,
And gaze enraptured on the lovely scene--

To mark the river, in the sunset glowing,--
To see the waters, now so calmly flowing,--
And then, anon, o'er ledgy ramparts pour,
Through winding gorge and rocky chasm roar;
Till, far below, they mingle into union,
With verdant shores to bind the sweet communion--

To see Rock Raymond lift hoary head,
With verdure clinging to his rough foundations,
Like some proud tombstone of the mighty dead,
Which has outlived a thousand generations,
And stood alone, the monarch of the plain,
While cities fell and forests rose again.

To see the Unconoonucs' double mound
Rise gently sloping from the woods around,
And, with its sides in richest verdure drest,
Shut out the glories of the golden west:
While sunbeams play upon each woody height,
And, fondly lingering, kiss their last good night.--

To see the hills, their lengthened shadows throwing,
Stretch up to catch the last expiring ray,
Till daylight, by the golden sunset glowing,
In dewy evening pine itself away:
While rock and dell, and tangled forest wild
Lie calm and gentle as a sleeping child.

And can it be, that such a land of beauty
Has known no heroes worthy of renown:
That noble deeds of friendship love or duty,
Have wreathed no laurel for the victor's crown?
A thousand years have trod their weary marches,--
A million souls have lived along this shore:
But who can say, that Heaven's golden arches,
For all this host, support one soul the more

What! not a hero for the poet's pen,
To laud his virtues o'er and o'er again:
No chieftains, warriors, prophets, seers or sages,
Have lived and flourished here for unknown ages:
Have here no hunters, youthful, fleet and strong,
Pursued the wild game o'er these hills along:
No laughing children gambol'd in the shade,
Roamed through the wood, or by the water strayed:
No dark eyed maidens sat beneath the trees,
And sang their love songs to the evening breeze:
No deeds of love, no deeds of fame or glory,
A desert land, unknown to song or story!

Had Homer, 'stead of Argos classic strand,
Claimed this fair valley as his native land,
How would these scenes have swarm'd with noble men
How buried heroes would have lived again!
Each lofty mountain, and each woody hill,
Each winding stream, and gently flowing rill,
Each rock and dell along this river shore,
In flowing verse, would live for evermore.
Proud Agamemnon would his sceptre wield,
O'er thousand braves encamped in Derryfleld:
And Chryses kneel on Massabesic's strand,
To pray Apollo's dire avenging hand:
And bold Ulysses reign in proud array,
From bright Souhegan to the Nashua;
While brave Achilles, pond'ring o'er his ills,
Would roam desponding o'er the Bedford hills:--
The dark Scamander, flowing through the bog,
Would yield its place to our Piscataquog:
And where rough Simois the verse encumbers,
Contoocook stand, to grace the flowing numbers:
While, on the shore, their close and serried ranks,
Move, dark and fearful up the river banks,
With courage dire, and martial ardor big,
To sack some Troy built up at Amoskeag.

But, of the mem'ries of the bloody deeds,
Enacted on our native hills and meads,
Of warrior yell, and dying victim's groan,
But few remain, and would that there were none,--
For bloody deeds have filled unnumbered pages,
And stained the record of a thousand ages;
While deeds of peace, embalmed by poet's pen,
Are none too many for the good of men.

So turn we then, from scenes of bloody strife,
From tomahawk, and club, and scalping knife;
And, should the muse, which, bound by cruel Mars,
Like some aged warbler, pines between the bars,
Be freed again to soar on spreading wing,
And in her own wild native song to sing,
She'll mount and warble o'er the notes of peace,
And sing the sweeter for her kind release.

When autumn fruits conferred their golden boon,
And bright September brought her harvest moon,
On that hill, above the rocky shore,
Where first the falls begin their sullen roar,
Once in each year, the Indians passed a night,
In solemn prayer and consecrated rite,
To offer thanks, from dewy eve till morn,
To their Great Spirit for the juicy corn;
While youths and maidens, 'neath the moonlight glance
Tripped lively measure in the Green Corn Dance.
Nor Persian skies, nor Thracian valleys green,
Have ever known so beautiful a scene,--
In waving plumes, and belt of wampum, drest,
The young braves dance and beat the naked breast;
While light and fleet, as flitting shadows pass,
So move the maidens o'er the yielding grass;
Dark eyes look out from 'neath a darker lash,
And shine and sparkle like a meteor's flash;
And raven tresses, flowing unconfined,
Float free and careless in the evening wind,
While tones of music, lively, wild and sweet,
Are tripped to measure by the tiniest feet;--
The aged squaws, and hoary warriors stand,
And gaze admiring on the youthful band;
While wrinkled crones, with low applauding hum,
Beat loud and furious on the wooden drum

O'er scenes like these, the mem'ry loves to dwell;
Of pleasing traits in savage minds they tell:--
Though still a savage, place him as you will,
With all his vices, he is human still.

Now short and simply, lest your patience fail,
I'll prove my saying, by an Indian tale.

Long, long ago, one Summer's day,
Ere those dark forests passed away,
Which hid the dusky Indian's track
Along the lovely Merrimack;
Where now the island sand bars clog
The mouth of our Piscataquog,
And where the tall trees, spreading wide,
Let squirrels play and shadows hide,
There, on the mossy bank reclining,
Her braided locks with beads entwining,
An Indian maiden, young and fair,
Sat playing with her jetty hair.--
'Twas calm and still, no sound was heard,
Except the twitt'ring of a bird,
Or turtles, diving from a log,
Deep in the waters of the 'Squog;
Her bark canoe lay on the sand,
The paddle rested by her hand,
In little coves the minnows played,
E'en close around the lovely maid,
Each other through her shadow chasing,
The beauteous image half defacing.--
The river's bank, the village nigh it,
Were all enrobed in solemn quiet,
For all the warriors were away,
Before the sun had brought the day,
To Unconoonucs' southern side,
To sit in council for the tribe,
The squaws were making deerskin nooses,
And playing with the young pappooses;
The boys, for sport and pleasure wishing,
Had gone to Amoskeag a fishing.

As thus the brave Manesquo's daughter
Sat gazing on the placid water,
A plaintive moan, of some one near,
Fell on the musing maiden's ear,
The girl look'd up, and there, before her,
Stood the old prophet Pascagora:
His manly form, now bent with age,
Told of the chief and the sage:
His eyes, which once like eagles' peer'd,
Now, dimm'd by age, were dull and blear'd;
With all the wisdom of his race,
Writ on his sear'd and wrinkled face.

The prophet, now seemed faint and weak,
A hectic flush was on his cheek;
And leaning 'gainst a tree near by,
He heaved a long and deep drawn sigh;--
The girl arose in quick surprise,
With pity beaming from her eyes:--
"What now, good father," said the maid,
"Has drove thee from the wigwam shade?
'Tis eighteen moons, since you before
Have passed beyond the cabin door?"
The prophet raised his sunken eye,
And pointing to the western sky,
"My child," said he, "ere yonder sun
Shall through his daily course have run,
And ere our noble braves return,
Or ere their fires shall cease to burn,
My soul shall well contented roam
In the Great Spirit's distant home.
I hear the rustling of his wings,
I feel the dread his presence brings,
O'er mighty rivers, dark and slow,
In light canoe I go, I go."

"But, ere I smoke the pipe of love,
Before the council fires above,
My spirit's eager to relate
The secrets of the red man's fate.
Now, maiden, list, I'll tell to thee
The red man's future destiny
And treasure it with earnest care,
'Tis Pascagora's dying prayer
And to the braves, when home returning
To where the village fires are burning,
Do you relate, with maiden's power,
The warnings of my dying hour."

No longer let the arrow hope
With leaden bullets' force to cope;
Let ashen bows no more withstand
The musket in the white man's hand;
Let scalping knives no longer gleam,
Or redden in life's purple stream;
Let tomahawks to graves be doomed,
Nor more in human skulls entombed:
Let not the simple Indian's will
Attempt to thwart the white man's skill;
The speed of his ambitious mind
Will leave the red man's far behind:
But let these wigwam fires go out,
These hills forget the warrior's shout;--
While in the dark and distant west,
The hunted brave shall find his rest."

Thus saying, Pascagora sank
Upon the green and mossy bank:
His eye, which once could meet the sun,
Now dimmed and failed,--its work was done;
His silver locks fell o'er his breast:
His tawny hand his brow compressed:
Nor moved he more, but groaned and sighed,
And thus great Pascagora died.

The maid, though trembling, not less bold,
Had knelt beside the prophet old;
With one hand, his, the girl had grasped,
One arm around his neck she clasped:--
She gave no cry--no tear she shed,
But sat in silence o'er the dead.

The day passed on--she had not stirred,
Through all the grove no sound was heard,
The sun was sinking in the west,
Each bird had sought its welcome nest,
And evening shadows, dark, serene,
Were gathering o'er the peaceful scene.
But hark! a war whoop, loud and shrill,
Re-echoes from the eastern hill!

The girl starts up, as now, once more,
The sound comes pealing to the shore;
Quick to her light canoe she speeds,
With one bold push she clears the reeds,
Swift as a flash, the little bark
Shoots out upon the waters dark;
Her fragile arm the paddle bends,
On either side the foam she sends,--
Soon, at the village by the shore,
The maiden drops the weary oar.

Meanwhile from Unconoonucs' brow,
The warriors are returning now,
Feathered and stained, in stern array,
All ready for the bloody fray,
Each glittering knife is in the hand,
Each bow and arrow at command:
With fearful yells, they stride along,
Chiming a rude and gutt'ral song,
Till, on the river's bank they stand,
A savage and a hideous band;--
Then, by the red sun's parting glance,
They gather for the warrior's dance,--
First, in a circle wide, they stand,
Each with an arrow m his hand,
Then crouching, and with bended bow,
They step to measure light and slow,
Now, quicker, with a savage flurry,
They circle round and hurry, hurry,
Now the ring breaks, and leaping, yelling,
In one discordant chorus swelling,
Then tomahawks are brandished high,
Their shouts re-echo from the sky,
Their blood-stained nostrils, opened wide,
Their furious leaps from side to side,
Their foaming lips, all dark and gory,
Mike up the red man's scene of glory.

Amid this frantic warrior band,
The maiden rushed,-- her little hand,
Speaking the force of woman's will,
Motioned the savage braves "be still."--
Each, with a stupid awe complied,
And dropped his weapon by his side.

Then spake the maiden:--"Warriors brave,
No more in angry passion rave;
Sheath now your knives, your war clubs lay
Beside your wigwam's entrance-way;
Let pale-faced men no more excite
The red-man to the bloody fight;
For deepest wisdom has combined
Its powers in the white man's mind;
And the Great Spirit hides his face,
In anger from our fated race;
But, with a sad and peaceful breast,
Let each brave seek the distant west,
For Pascagora--now no more,
Sleeps on the island's dusky shore,
And thus our noble prophet said,
Ere to the spirit land he sped."

Thus spake the girl, and, shocked, amazed,
The warriors on each other gazed:--
A moment o'er,--Manesquo proud
Stepped out before the swarthy crowd,
His blood-shot eye with anger burned,
As to his silent braves he turned,
"Warriors," said he "Manesquo's knife
Is yearning for the white man's life;
My arrow longs to see the blood
Flow gurgling forth a crimson flood;
Or, with a quick convulsive start,
Come leaping from the white man's heart;
My club is racked by hunger's pains,
And longs to sup on human brains."

Thus speaking, at some fancied foe,
The chieftain dealt a fearful blow:
And tossing back his blanket free,
He hurled his hatchet at a tree:--
But ah! some demon with it sped,
It glanced--and cleft his daughter's head.

The maiden fell without a moan:--
Manesquo, with a fearful groan,
Sank kneeling by his daughter's side,
And strove to check the crimson tide,
Now flowing o'er her quivering face,
Fast passing into death's embrace:--
His head hung o'er his manly chest,
A tear dropped on the maiden's breast.
The warriors stood in mute surprise,
And, silent, gazed with pitying eyes.

At length, Manesquo raised his head,
And, sighing, to his warriors, said
"No flower was e'er so fair as she,
No fawn e'er moved so gracefully,
'Tis the Great Spirt,--his command
Has called her to the spirit land,
Has claimed her, as his royal bride,
To sit in beauty by his side.
Now will I heed the maiden's warning,
And, with the morrow's early dawning,
With every parting duty done,
We'll journey to the setting sun."

Then to the burial task they haste
The aged prophet and the maid,
In one deep sepulchre laid,
An elm tree sapling, growing nigh,
Points out the hillock where they lie.

Next morning sun rose bright and clear
While through the valley, far and near,
From every bush, and every tree,
Poured forth the birds' sweet melody,--
But, with the notes of every bird,
No sound of human voice was heard;
The wigwam's shelter, now, no more,
Stood on the headland by the shore;
The open spot, with woods around,
The foot prints left upon the ground,
The brands, upon their ashy bed,
A broken knife, an arrow's head,
A blanket, in their haste forgot,
Were all they left to mark the spot.

Full fifty years had passed, and o'er
This valley stretched on either shore,
No member of the red man's race
Had shown his proud and dusky face.
From Unconoonucs' woody side,
To Massabesic's sleeping tide;
From Hacket's hill and Martin's ferry,
All through the woods of Londonderry,
Were scattered in each sunny spot,
The clearings for the white man's cot,
When, on a bright September morn,
Before the early dews were gone,
An aged Indian, tired and sore,
Came limping to a cottage door:
And, with his trembling accent rude,
In broken English, asked for food,
His form was bent, his long white locks
Told of a hundred winters' shocks;
No weapon in his hand he bore,
No plume upon his head he wore,
No copper rings his features graced,
No beaded wampum decked his waist,
His moccasins were old and worn,
His bearskin blanket patched and torn.
Thus, day by day, this chief was seen
Roaming about the meadows green;
Now by the brook, now by the bog,
Now by the bright Piscataquog;
And, when the night brought on its shade
His couch beneath an elm he made,
Which grew upon a grassy mound,
Near what is now the fishing ground.

One morn, a settler passed that way
And saw the Indian as he lay:
The snow had fallen through the night,
And covered him with mantle white;
His thin lips opened wide for breath,
His eyes were closing fast in death;--
He beck'd the white man to his side,
And like a weeping infant cried:--
"Bury me here, here let me be,
Bury me here beneath this tree;
And let your pale-faced squaws relate
This legend of the red man's fate:
That here the great Manesquo died,
And slumbers by his daughter's side.--
Then bury me in this grassy mound,
Oh bury me 'neath this frozen ground,
Where lie the ones I hold so dear,
Bury me here! Oh! bury me here!"
They dug his grave beneath the tree,
And left him where he sought to be.

A hundred years have flitted by,
And still the mound, in which they lie,
Is standing by the river's shore
As it has always stood before;
But now no tree, with spreading shade,
Points out the spot where they were laid;
And o'er their mould'ring ashes now,
The farmer guides the shining plough.
Thus, undisturbed, their bodies rest
Beneath the meadow's grassy breast;
Their spirits joined in holy love,
Now roam the hunting grounds above.

Now, changed are the scenes of the red men's dominion
Along the bright field by the Merrimack's shore;
The bird of their freedom has spread her broad pinion,
To sail o'er the land of her glory no more.

The green Unconoonuc still peers o'er the valley,
And o'er its proud summit, the breezes still ride:
But never again shall the rude Indian rally,
And chant his wild death song upon its dark side.

And still the Piscataquog rolls its bright water,
The island still offers its deep gloomy shade,
And where played the maiden, Manesquo's fair daughter,
The little bird warbles her sweet serenade.

O'er Merrimack's bosom the winds are still straying,
And plough on its surface, the furrows of blue;
But never is seen, o'er the bright water straying,
The Indian again with his birchen canoe.

Still green is the tree, in the summer light glowing,
And green are the woods, when the summer winds sigh;
But greener the moss, which below them is growing,
And feeds on the mould where their ancestors lie.

The proud stepping moose, from the dread hunter flying,
Has left his wild haunts to the still summer air;
And far in the dell, where the red deer were lying,
The little brown rabbit is making his lair.

O'er Amoskeag rocks, the white foam is still dashing,
As free and as playful as ever before,
But the shad and the salmon no longer are splashing,
While drawn in the fisherman's net to the shore.

Rock Raymond, created to wash away never,
Still shows to the forest its dark ragged breast,
But hushed are the cries of the wild-cat for ever,
And squirrels crack nuts in the rattlesnake's nest.

The dark gloomy cavern, where dew-drops are weeping,
No longer shall cradle the cubs of the bear;
But out at each cranny so cautiously peeping,
The little young foxes are gamboling there.

The high rocky hill, where the wolves were once straying,
Now echoes the bleat of the motherly dam;
And, where the young whelps in the sunshine were playing,
Now gambols and capers the frolicking lamb.

O'er broad Massabesic the waves are still creeping,
And loud o'er the waters the loon-divers cry;
While, under the lily pads quietly sleeping,
The pickerel waits for the little blue fly.

And still in the forest the wild bee is humming,
Still high in the tree top the woodpigeons breed,
And, on the lone log, still the partridge is drumming,
While on the red berries her little ones feed.

The wild honeysuckle is gracefully swinging
Down close by the bed where the violets grow;
And, soaring above them, the gay bird is singing
Her sweet little song to the flowers below.

O'er the same meadows the white clouds are floating,
On the same hill tops the blue-berries grow,
O'er the same valley the sun light is gloating,
In the same channels the broad rivers flow.
All else how changed! for another race
Now live and die in the red man's place.

And the tall Young brave, with his martial tread,
And the prophet old, with his hoary head,
And the noble chief, with his brow of care,
And the youthful maid, with her raven hair,
They are gone, all gone, and are all at rest
'Neath the mould'ring sod on the valley's breast.

They are gone, all gone from their native shore,
And the woods shall ring with their shouts no more:--
From the shady grove, by the river's side,
Where the lover sued for his dusky bride,
From the purling brook in the woody shade,
Where the young pappoose in the water played,
From the rocky hill, and the sandy mound,
From the hunting field, and the fishing ground,
With the frighted deer, and the timid fawn,
From their forest home they are gone, all gone.

They are gone, all gone, and the rattling car,
Rolls over the mound where their ashes are:
And the lab'rer leans' on his earthworn spade,
To sigh at the havoc his work has made;
For the mould'ring bones he scattered 'round
Like the dead exhumed from a burial ground,
And he stoops and takes with his horny hand,
A raven tress from the mould'ring sand.

They are gone, all gone, and the crickets sing
On their lonely graves to the sunny spring;
And the cuckoo moans in the shady wood,
O'er the desert spot where the wigwam stood;
And the jay bird screams from the distant hill
To the plaintive notes of the whip-poor-will;
While the waters moan, as they hurry on,
And the night wind sighs, "they are gone, all gone!"

'Tis hundred years! but, a hundred years,
How short their flitting sound appears,
As we count the strokes of the ceaseless chime
Which tolls and tolls till the end of time!
Tis a hundred years! but, a hundred years,
How long their serried host appears,
As we mark the tread of the golden sun,
And the moments passing one by one!

In a hundred years, through the valley wide,
What a host have lived, what a host have died:
The weak and the mighty, the sad and the gay,
How they hurry on and hurry away!
And the cry still is, as they're pressing on,
"Give room, give room for the later born."

'Tis a hundred years! but, a hundred years,
What a changeful phase in the sound appears,
In the world before, to the youthful mind,
To the men of age, in the world behind:--
To the sportive child, with its pleasures rife,
When a single day is a long, long life;
And to sober age, with its locks of grey,
When the whole of life's but a single day!

But a day ago, in her beauty's pride,
The wrinkled crone was a fair young bride;
And the silken locks of her auburn hair,
Caught many a youth in a fatal snare;
And the damask rose on her blushing cheek
Filled many a breast too full to speak:--
But now, she sits in her high-backed chair,
With her wrinkled cheeks and her hoary hair,
With her toothless lips and her grisly brow,
Like a faded rose is her beauty now.

But she sits and sits in her high-backed chair,
With her dull eyes fixed in a dreamy stare,
And she talks to herself, in a murmur low,
Of the things she did but a day ago.

"But a day ago, when my voice was young,
How the lovers sighed at the songs I sung,
How their eyes would flash with a meaning glance,
As I twined my feet in the mazy dance!
And I smiled on all, with a look as gay
s [sic 'Tis?] if beauty ne'er would pass away--
And it seems, in spite of my locks of snow,
It seems to me but a day ago."

"But a day ago, on a Sabbath morn,
I was standing up with my bridals on;
And the noblest youth of a noble land
Was to place the ring on my snowy hand
And the roses blushed to the summer air,
As they kissed the curls of my auburn hair;
And the diamonds dimmed, as they failed to vie
With the starry light of my sparkling eye.--
'Tis a weary life, as the moments flow,
Yet it seems to me but a day ago."

"But a day ago, since the joyous time
When I danced and sang in my beauty's prime,
But a day ago, on the village green,
With a blooming wreath, I was crowned the queen."
--And a tear drop steals down her furrowed cheek,
And her thin lips quiver, whispering low,
"But a day ago, but a day ago!"

As the sailor sits in his cabin door,
With his vessel moored and his voyage o'er,
How he loves to read from his dingy log,
Of the piping blast or the murky fog,
Of the towering berg which the vessel passed,
E're she safely came to the port at last.

So let us unite, as we gather here,
On the safe return of a hundredth year,
In a hasty search, with a curious eye,
O'er the record book of the days gone by,
From the letters old on its mouldy page,
We may draw some good for the coming age.

Oh! a merry life led the hunter bold,
As he trod these hills in the days old;
When his only friend was the trusty gun,
And his only compass the rolling sun;
When his warmest couch was a leafy bed,
With the branches waving overhead;
When his only quilt was the dark blue sky,
With its starry patchwork waving high.

When the day was o'er, and the hunt was done,
With the parting ray of the setting sun,
What a dainty meal did his hands prepare,
By his hunting fire in the open air.

When the silver stars through the branches peep,
And the squirrel curls in his hole to sleep;
When the warbler flies to her leafy nest,
And the spotted deer lies down to rest,
How he sweetly sleeps 'neath the open sky,
With the evening breeze for his lullaby.

And the fishermen were a sturdy race,
Who had this spot as their dwelling place.--
On the slimy rock by the water side,
On the jutting peak 'mid the foaming tide,
Where the speckled salmon wildly leapt
O'er the lofty rock where the water swept,
Where the shad was showing his silver side,
And the alewife sculled in the foaming tide;
'Mid the wat'ry spray, and the snowy foam,
'Mong the raging waves, was their dearest home.
And they loved to stand on the slip'ry rock,
Which had stood through time 'mid the waters' shock
In the foaming waves below, to feel
With an iron crook, for the squirming eel,
And they loved to take from the eel his life
With a horrid gash, from a monstrous knife;
And, to stain their hands and garments o'er
With the sticky slime and the ruddy gore;
And they loved to fish, through the live-long night,
And they loved to drink, and they loved to fight.

But, your pardon here, as I must digress,
For I cannot give e'en a short address
On my fathers' home, their woes, their weal,
And omit the claims of the squirming eel.

"Ignoble theme!" does the critic say,--
But what care I for his sneering bray?
In my boyhood's days upon eels I fed,
And as now to you, I a banquet spread,
Of such simple food as the past reveals,
I invite you now to a dish of eels.

O'er every land and in every age,
By the high and low, by the fool and sage,
For the dainty eel has been left a space,
At the festive board in an honored place.

When the Roman consul gave his feast,
Of the rarest kind of bird and beast,
'Twould have seemed to him but a scanty meal,
Had he failed to furnish the dainty eel.

Great Flaccus doffed his robes of pride,
And in sack-cloth mourned for an eel that died;
And with keenest pang which the heart can feel,
Horatius wept for a squirming eel.¹
And higher still in the list of fame,--
I'll point to the royal Henry's name,
Who died, as history's page reveals,
A martyred soul in the cause of eels!²
Our fathers treasured the slimy prize:
They loved the eel as their very eyes:
And of one 'tis said, with a slander rife,
For a string of eels, he sold his wife!

From the eels they formed their food in chief,
And eels were called the "Derryfield beef!"
And the marks of eels were so plain to trace,
That the children looked like eels in the face;
And before they walked--it is well confirmed,
That the children never crept but squirmed.

Such a mighty power did the squirmers wield
O'er the goodly men of old Derryfield,
It was often said that their only care,
And their only wish, and their only prayer,
For the present world and the world to come,
Was a string of eels and a jug of rum!

Oh the eel, the eel, the squirming eel,
What a lovely phase does his life reveal!
In his chamber dark, 'neath the silver wave,
Where the sleeping rocks in the waters lave,
Harmless and lone, how he gently glides,
As he sucks the dew from their mossy sides!

As the little fry through the water swim,
Not a single fear have the fry for him:
Not a single fear need the minnows feel,
For a gentle thing is the squirming eel.

When attacked by foes not a blow he deals,
But away alone in his glory steals;
Not an angry thought to disturb his rest,
Not an envious wish in his peaceful breast;
What a lesson here for his surest weal,
Might be taught to man by the squirming eel.

If I should e'er, at a later age,
Support a costly equipage;
In a palace live, and, with swelling pride,
In a gaily gilded chariot ride,
I'll 'grave upon my family seal
"The eel! the eel!! the squirming eel!!!"

Enough of this--no faithful heart desires
To mark the failings of our noble sires:--
From little follies, though but seldom free
Of grosser vices they had less than we,--
Their deeds of honor are by far too high
To feel the lash of scorn and ribaldry,
For every field which drank the patriot's blood
Has tasted theirs the free'st of the flood.

But while they point with proudly swelling eye,
To Bunker's column towering in the sky;
And while they boast the noble blood they shed,
Till Concord's plains blushed with the gory red,
They have their glory--it is theirs alone;
We too, have ours, and we too, claim our own.

Where'er a school-house dots the village green
Where'er a church spire charms the rural scene;
Where christian people to the altar wend,
Where happy children o'er their lessons bend,
Where iron horses whist o'er the land,
Where crowded cities rise on barren sand:
Where captured rivers feed our monster mills,
There are our "Concords," there our "Bunker Hills"