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True the knight seems smothered by the dragon;
Yes, although so slowly, he is dying;
Ancient dragon, you are slowly dying ! Golden warrior, ever fairer, stronger ! Child of light, my great Prometheus-Balder, Dear, and beautiful, and never-fading, Rouse! for now the fire-drake makes him ready For his maddest, fiercest, foulest struggle — Rouse! O countrymen! men of the North-land, All around you twines the Southern dragon, All your life is blent with subtle poison, All your veins are fired with heat infernal, From the loathsome devil's spume and breathing : Strike, my warrior, strike him dead forever ! End the world-old strife between the oppressor And the oppressed: press on, for you must conquer !
VII. Now the good knight frees him from the dragon, Casts aside the ancient heavy armor, Bathes him in the purest light of heaven, In the intensest lucent-flowing spirit ; White, and beautiful, and lithe, and naked, Oh! how golden-fair withouten armor! True, it shielded him for many ages ; True, it guarded him against the dragon; But it always was a heavy armor, Girding, smothering, chafing unto bleeding Those fair limbs of ivory-purest beauty : Strange that thousands should have deemed that armor Was his chiefest charm, and best worth keeping ; -Soul of beauty, rule this world forever !
THE ROUGH RHYMES OF REVOLUTION.
I Have a great sympathy for collectors. I am not collective myself — that is to say, I will not deny the possession of a half hundred weight of miscellaneieties of a curiositarian description which have stuck to me as I went along — but I don't collect. There are men who grow moustaches, and some who are too lazy to shave.
There are autographs. I have of them some few score of a very varied character. Goethe and Chang and Eng, Aldrich and Stoddard and P. T. Barnum; Messrs. Bunsen, Monod, D'Aubigné, and Lacordaire; Harriet Wilson, Aurora Konigsmarke, and Lola Montez. A note from Bayard Taylor in sixteen lines, every line in a different language, is there, and also manuscriptive notes or paragraphs from the hands of Hugh Fitz Hugh, who, taking a hint from Leigh Hunt's Indicator, intends to favor the world shortly with a Cannabis Indicator. Likewise from Charles A. Dana and Thackeray, from Bourci. cault and Grisi and Ullman, and Sontag, and the Heinefetter, Taglioni and Grau, Delmonico, Jeremy Bentham and Count Gurowski. Then I have Helmine von Chezy, George Sand and Rose Terry - and take this opportunity to inform the publisher of the KNICKERBOCKER that I have just appropriated a nice little Harriet E. Prescott which he inadvertently left lying around loose, and which I prize even as one prizeth the priziest of treasures !
Woe is me — this is not the collection of which I should be speaking. Not exactly. In the beginning I had under hand a small collection of the kind which Cobbett once referred to when he wished to show how far human folly and waste-time could possibly go — I mean ballads political — in this case illustrative of the history of the United States. And very rough and rowdy ballads at that. Not the polished or interesting lyrics which gentlemen place in volumes — oh! no. These are of the kind of songs which are really sung!
First among them is a Song of the Revolution, for which I return thanks to my solid and entertaining old friend, the Boston Saturday Express, and which it declares was poet-ized by Shubael Wheeler, a soldier of Captain Isaac Hodge's company of Rehoboth. It was written on the back of the musterroll of the company -- says the Express — and is to be found among the revolutionary rolls in the office of the Secretary of State. Rude as it is, there is more than one brave, hearty old verse in it, applicable to the present time.
A XEW SONG.
O let no papest bare the Sway
So you see by that, reader, that the memory of the Puritan fathers was no small incitement in the early day. Should we who have not only Puritan, but Revolutionary - yea, and 'Last War' memories, be less forward in the good cause?
A long leap and we come to a song of the present day. Take off your hats — clear the kitchen — for the South-Carolina Gentleman approaches, as set forth in the latest Park paling ballad :
Air. — The Fine Old English Gentleman.
man of high standing has assured must be a sinner's fate.
You trace his genealogy and not far back you'll see,
Caucasian blood, but on the contrary betrays an admixture with a race
not particularly popular now.
He always wears a full-dress coat, pre-Adamite in cut,
Original Jacobs in Chatham street for jewels gen-u-ine.
He chews tobacco by the pound and spits upon the floor,
peach and honey, irrepressible cock-tail rum, and gum, and luscious
He takes to euchre kindly, too, and plays an awful hand,
win: 'It's my opinion you are a cursed abolitionist and if you don't leave
pay his loss he makes.
Of course he's all the time in debt to those who credit gives,
blue cockade, and declares that in consequence of the repeated aggressions
has at last determined to SECEDE.
If • Wrigley, Publisher of Songs, Ballads, and Toy Books, Conversation, Age, and Small Playing Cards,' whose imprimatur colophons this lyric, had only given the author's name, Albert Pike might have known who his rival is. But the bard of the broad-side ballad never is known. He may “start'a song which will live for centuries — but he cannot live with it - il faut mourir.
The next in order has a veritable camp-anological ring to it. I clip it from the military correspondence of the Wilmington, Delaware, Commonwealth. It is a true chirp from a Blue Hen's Chicken.
THE DELAWARE VOLUNTEERS.
COME all you young men that do intend to roam
There's fishes in the Delaware that's fitting for our use,
Cruising down around the banks, etc.
Come all you young girls, and spin us some yarn,
Cruising down around, etc.
If any of them Southerners dare to come nigh,
Cruising down around, etc.
There is the chime of an older song in that Delaware chant - something recalling the blue briny, and a real pirate song — not a piano-forte pirate lyric. How was it?
*We met a gal-i-ant vessel, a-cruisin' on the sea;
That was the first spark of “The Delaware Volunteers.' Let the thousandand-one poets who are writing soldier-songs, war-songs, and camp-songs at such a scampering rate in all the newspapers of the country, take a hint from this last lyric which has in it more intrinsic evidence of real popularity than all that has so far appeared in print. A song for the soldiers — for the rank and file — must not fly too high. A good old slow, nasal tune is a fine - I may say a very fine — foundation. A regular old North-east tune, one of the kind which Jack intones so monotonously, and wailing boisterously when heaving the anchor:
"Oh! Sa-lly Brown!' Your tune once settled, let there be just enough of some older song in your verses to demi-semi-familiarize the auditor with the new one. It is hard to drum an entirely new song into proletarian popularity. Ninety-nine out of one hundred of all new airs — Dixie or Villikens — become common, simply