“To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice.”—SHAKSPEARE.
As Lucifer, the angel, fell
From bliss of Heaven to pain of hell;
And there, as devil, would put on
The mask in which he once had shone:
So copperheads, with fiendish guile,
The name of freedom would defile,
While they her mask and robe display,
The better to deceive—betray
The wandering, friendless, emigrant,
Confiding, poor and ignorant,
Who deems “Democracy” a name
Of something real, not a sham!
In reference to these, our course
Has been unwise—from bad to worse;
All too indulgent and remiss,
Till now we hear their hydra-hiss!
Some emigrants our shores who seek
Digest our laws as they do Greek!
And when probation time is gone,
They find their work already done;
The years, we know, have quickly sped
Without impressing heart or head,
With sense of duties to be done,—
What course to steer, what rocks to shun;
Yet without question, we admit
Th’ untutored Vandal as a cit;
And thus the prudence of our sires
Is melted in base party fires;
And Freedom drops her vital claims
In legal forms and empty names.[z]
How can we Freedom’s reign restore;
And make her glorious as before?
By clearing her, as best we may,
Of snarls contracted on the way:
And Slavery’s terrific coil
Will claim our whole united toil;
With one gigantic effort first,
Let’s hurl to hell the thing accurst!
Till slavery in the land shall cease,
Where is the hope for rest or peace?
Thereafter we shall be too wise
To make with hell a compromise:
Let us dissolve this bond with Death
And freedom to our sons bequeath;
Then shall rebellion in our land
Forever hide its bloody hand;
Then shall our righteous rule be laid
Upon a rock both sure and staid;
And then our stainless flag unfurled
Shall float, the glory of the world![1]
Another grievance, I opine,
Is this, Jack’s vote’s as good as mine,
Or yours, or any noble steed,
Though Jack is dull and slow of speed,
Degraded, brutal, ignorant,
Depraved in every wish and want,
A wretch, a thief, an arrant knave,
A copperhead—a willing slave!
To those who from the Fathers quote
And say that such were meant to vote,
I put these queries now, at once:
Which of the fathers was a dunce?
Pray name the man,—say, who was he
Who thus could poison freedom’s tree,
By introducing, at its birth,
The borer that should work its death?
Since all were missionaries known
Of these great truths, that Right alone,
Worth and intelligence can save
A free Republic from its grave!
But grant the fathers dolts and fools,
Should we be guided by their rules;
Be chained by trammels of the past
And let our reason run to waste?
These queries then, I put, per force,
How many donkeys make one horse?
How much of ignorance condense
To make one mind of common sense?
How much of tyranny and wrong
Will make it right, in justice strong?
How many years of power and lust
Can crush man’s God-given rights in dust?[2]
What length of lawless usurpation
Gives right to rule in any nation?
How many criminals co-blent
Suffice to make a single saint?
How many Arnolds joined in one,
Suffice to form a Washington?
How many spouters of our day
Would make one Webster, Burke, or Clay?
I might go on ad infinitum,
Propounding item after item.
But still the copperhead is near,
And thunders fiercely in mine ear;
“Dare you our liberties assail,
Must not majorities prevail?”
I answer: “as a general rule,[3]
The “major” is the greater fool;”
The horse that bears me on with ease,
May be of any hue you please;
Nor to the binding do we look,
To find the worth of any book;
Nor judge we wisdom by its size,
Its weight, not bulk, we justly prize.
“But wisdom lies,” the book avers,
“In multitude of counsellors!”
I grant the maxim sound and true,
And just the thing we want most, too;
We’ve multitudes of quacks, I grant,
And lawyers more than Heaven can want,
But as for counsellors, alack,
Scarce one that’s fit to counsel Jack!
What brought this state of things about?
These same majorities, no doubt,
Composed of moral lepers, apes,
Who of true men assume the shapes;
The sole reliance of the base,
To whom we all our woes can trace;
To please this lowest rabble rout,
We trot our meanest hobblers out,
Trimmed up to suit their grov’ling taste,
Their characters smeared o’er with paste;
Their record from some distant State
Comes back upon us when too late;
But now their face with whisky blooms,
Whose odor all the air perfumes;
Tobacco juice streams all around;
The halls with revelry resound,
Where rum and brandy freely flow,
And all is joy and bliss below.
What better bait could mortal proffer
To some who have got votes to offer?
They take immensely, oh, how good!
“Par fratrum,” noble brotherhood!
And thus the ball incessant flies
Down, down the steep, no more to rise,
And thus ’twill be, so long as we
Indulge this game of infamy!
What would you have? set forth your plan,
Provided ’tis republican.
Republican! What else should please,
Or bring stability and ease?
Yet what are names? what do we care
For empty sound or tinsel glare?
Give us the substance, fly vain shade,
For empty heads and stomachs made!
As said Erasmus to the Pope,
“I’m orthodox in heart and hope,
But, in my stomach, Protestant,
At least against all present want!”
So say I now;—I Freedom love
All other earthly things above;
In name I love it, but, much better,
In spirit, substance, and in letter.
What mean you, then, by “Freedom,” sir?
Explain yourself, without demur;
Have we not got it here already?
Where else can man enjoy it steady?
Your queries, as an honest man
I’ll fairly answer, if I can,
And first this question I propound;
What is true freedom, and where found?
Where strength and violence prevail?
Where widows weep and orphans wail?
Where christian men enslave the weak,
Because the sun has tinged their cheek?
Or, where the humblest son of toil,
Who works the mine, or tills the soil,
Can raise to Heaven his grateful eyes,
And thank the Ruler of the skies,
That, though all other goods are flown,
His limbs, his soul, are still his own;
And that no despot’s hand can blight
His home or rob him of his right;
That no majorities can wrest
His babe from its dear mother’s breast,
That by no fathers, bribed with gold,
Can their own blood for slaves be sold,
That by no wretch for murder born
Can husband from his wife be torn!
This is the freedom guaranteed
To men of every color, creed,
When first our Nation saw the light,
By this great charter of the right:
“All men are brothers, equal, free.
For happiness, life, liberty!”
This gem was won through toils and throes,
Through tribulations, pains and woes,
By our great sires, and handed down,
The noblest gift,—most precious boon!
Shall we, through fear or impotence,
Renounce this bright inheritance?
Or can we from our hearts unfix
The memories of “Seventy six”?
Forbid it Heaven! while we retain
One note of Freedom’s glorious strain.
THE BIRTH OF FREEDOM, JULY 4, 1776.
(An Ode.)
The die is cast,
Whether for good or ill,
Let no regrets our anxious bosom fill;
The Rubicon is passed,
Nailed are our colors to the mast,
A truce to doubting or unmanly fear;
For home for country now
Are pledged the solemn vow,
Our fortunes, honor, life, and all that we hold dear!
Thus to his loved one did each hero say,
When home returned at eve of this immortal day.
And she replied:
Well, since it must be so,
With you we sympathize in weal or woe,
Assert your country’s cause with noble pride;
Arm, arm, advance and boldly meet the foe!
Your country calls! you must obey her voice!
A recreant he who shrinks from such a call;
Since she enshrines our homes, our loves, our all;
Next after God, our country is our choice;
And Heaven forbid, it ever should be said,
That we, Columbia’s matrons, felt dismayed!
And let not love
Of wife or children you from duty keep;
What, though your absence lonely here we weep;
Th’ all-seeing eye will guard us from above;
And while the battle rages o’er the plain,
Our prayers for you shall not ascend in vain;
Or, should you fall untimely in the strife,
Heaven will befriend your orphans and your wife!
Beloved, one dear embrace,
And then a long, perhaps a last, farewell,
Should Heaven so will, my heart shall not rebel,
But still, this day with pride I shall retrace;
My country born to freedom and to joy;
Oh! bliss supreme,
This were a theme,
The harps of mighty seraphs to employ!
The world shall hail this truth proclaimed by thee:
Man is by nature, and he shall be, free.
Wake, wake the lyre,
Sound drum and trumpet, let the cannons roar
Proclaim the jubilee from shore to shore;
Go, join yon phalanx like a wall of fire
Impervious around young Freedom thrown,
And let each hero mark her for his own!
Thus spake each noble matron as she gazed,
Undaunted, where no mimic war-fires blazed.
The aim of government and laws
Is to defend true freedom’s cause;
The strong man’s injustice detect
And punish, and the weak protect;
The innocent to vindicate
By every power within the State;
Of evil to arrest the flood,
And use their influence for good;
If in these noble aims they fail,
And by majorities assail
The life or liberty of man
’Tis time to spurn the odious plan;
And any system to befriend,
Which may secure the wished-for end.
On every hand this cry we hear
“We purchase justice far too dear,”
To all its sons th’ indulgent State
Should grant this arbiter of fate,
Free as the air that we inhale;
Fresh as from ocean springs the gale;
Prompt as the light of summer’s dawn,
Sweet as the hay-swath on the lawn;
Not tainted with corruption’s breath,
Breathed from the charnel house of death;
And, as the people wield the power,
Why not reform this very hour?
So long as magistrates can fleece,
Crime and its causes must increase;
So long as jurors hands shall itch,
And gold stick to them fast as pitch;
So long as officers are paid
Just as they ply their venal trade;
So long as vile contractors fill
Their coffers from the public till,
And go unhanged, while soldiers starve
Or sink exhausted to the grave;
So long as venal lawyers plead
Not led by right, but urged by need,
And be, like cattle, bought and sold,
And barter Heaven itself for gold;
So long as judges shall be found
Who on the strength of party ground
Their judgments, and the cause decide
To suit self-interest or pride;—
So long, by mind’s unerring laws,
Effects will flow as bids the cause;
And when the bantling is adult,
A monstrous evil must result
Which soon will swallow freedom down;
Vice brooks no rival near its throne,
But proudly wields its scepter dread,
And rules supreme, a copperhead!
What use is freedom’s written scroll,
Unless ’tis graven on the soul?
Why vainly celebrate its birth,
If it has fled to Heaven from earth,
To aggravate our pain and cross,
By pointing out its grievous loss?
Astræa nought to me avails,
If but her phantom hold the scales;
Who, with her finger in my fob,
Like saint bedeckt, like strumpet rob,
And smiling say: “Peace, friend, be still,
This is the law—the people’s will.”
If slavery’s shadow in the North
Hath such results as these brought forth;
Then what must be the moral state,
Of those who feel its full grown weight?
Or of a land whose priests profane
God’s word and his most holy fane;
By preaching slavery until
The mass believe it is no ill;
And four of every six incline
To hail the monster half divine?
Ask each of these, and he replies:
“In slavery true freedom lies:”
Ask where is freedom’s proper sphere?
He points to Dixie; “Lo, tis there!”
Thus have they masked hypocrisy,
And dubbed her “young Democracy!”
Democracy’s vile sham and stain,
You don fair Freedom’s mask in vain!
You cannot pass in that disguise,
Nor thus elude our Argus-eyes.
Your boasted Christian brotherhood
Is one of violence and blood;
Your star of freedom pales its rays,
Becomes a farthing rush-light’s blaze,
And shows your “chivalry” as shams
Peddling their bogus nuts and hams;
And the vile rag you have unfurled,
The jest and scorn of all the world!
Nor is your mission one to bless
The weak and humble, but oppress;
Uphold the robber, thief, and knave,
And make the innocent your slave.
Nor do you foster hope and light,
But shroud your evil deeds in night;
Proscribe all learning, genius, taste,
And make your realm a howling waste:
And on this rock your church is built,
A corner-stone of vice and guilt;
And this you purpose to defend
Against all comers, foe or friend:
Entrenched behind this monstrous wrong,
You swear to rule, since you are strong,
You boast your dupes God’s chosen host
To scourge a world in “darkness lost,”
“Fanatics” who refuse to see
The glory of your “liberty!”
Thus you the God of hosts blaspheme,
As aider of your monstrous scheme;
Implore him to blot out his sun,
By victories through treason won;
This land with anarchy to flood,
And drown all kindred ties in blood;
Nay this great Union to destroy,
That you your bauble may enjoy!
Like some poor maniac raging wild,
Or some indulged and petted child,
Who for a rattle or a straw,
Some gilded trifle or gewgaw,
Screams madly with his ebbing breath,
You grasp your idols,—strong in death!
Enough! your purpose we perceive,
And spurn your doctrines! while we grieve
For our dear land’s supreme disgrace,
Defiled and tortured by your race;
Though brief and turbid be your day,
Your odious name will bring dismay,
Forever, to each generous heart
That with humanity takes part:
Henceforth, vile monster, live or dead!
We dub you viper, COPPERHEAD.
The copperhead! Has he a soul?
And does it seek yon starry pole,
When death relieves it from the clay,
And wing on high its airy way?
I question if a thing so vile
Can live beyond the present style,
Or if it should, where could it go,
To find its full repast of woe?
What think you, then, of transmigration,
Or interchange of place and station?
Perhaps the nigger-whippers pass
To shades still darker than of brass,
And copperheads, as seemeth proper,
Put on more sombre hues than copper;
And find new quarters made to fit,
In negro tenements, to-wit;
And thus become, in very fact,
The things that they so much have cracked;
And hear their master, late their slave,
With furious tone and gesture rave;
And feel the lash he plies so well,
And howl in this congenial hell!
Transcendant life! immortal part!
I long to know what thing thou art;
Whether a phantom light as air,
Or form symmetrical and fair;
An essence which can never die;
Or something passing as a sigh,
Which, when this frame dissolves in dust,
Returns to nothing, as at first;
Or whether thou hast always been
The same, through every changing scene,
And why to some thou art so sweet;
To others with such woes replete?
It cannot be this conscious being
Is all absorbed in feeling, seeing;
That those desires we cannot sate
Are doomed to end in this low state,
Unsatisfied; and that the powers
We feel within us and as ours,
Should, at our death, be swept away
Like shadows by the morning’s ray;
Nor can it be, that sin and crime
Can go unwhipt, if not in time.
No, we shall bask for evermore
In light, and light’s great source adore,
With those who love the right shall shine,
In union, peace and love divine;
Whilst copperheads and all their host
In hell’s tempestuous surge are tossed,
And wail forever “Lost, lost, lost!”
Oh! for a moment on hell’s brink,
To view the tortured reptiles sink,
Ten million fathoms in th’ abyss,
And thence rebound with bubbling hiss;
Their throats with sulph’rous vapor choked,
Their slimy length begrimed and smoked;
Each hideous skin as if ’twould burst,
By belching out the draught accurst;
All tortured and convulsed with rage,
To whom each moment seems an age—
Who vainly call “emancipation,”
To free them from that deep damnation,
Or else for swift annihilation!
Then might we realize the sting
That wrongs to men on spirits bring;
Then would we fully comprehend,
That God is justice and its friend!
Oh miracle! scarce had my prayer
Been breathed upon the vacant air,
When lo! a vision, or a dream,
As clear as pebbles in a stream,
Appeared before my wondering eyes
And filled my soul with deep surprise;
I’ll paint the scene the best I can,
’Twas thus the strange illusion ran:
A DREAM OF EREBUS.
Night’s shadows closed round me, I lay on my bed,
And visions of beauty encompassed my head;
The sweetest of melodies floated around,
The Muses and Graces kept time to the sound:
The scene was enchanting; but brief was its stay,
In mists and in clouds it soon melted away:
Then darkness succeeded, the horrors of death!
I struggled as one who was fighting for breath!
Till, in fancy, I passed through the last mortal throe,
And my spirit sought rest in the regions below.
My passport delayed me a while, but, at last,
Through the wide-yawning portals of Pluto I passed;
Then, warned by a goblin I met on the way,
My respects to the grim king of Hades I pay:
I advance to his throne, and, without falling prostrate,
I pay my devoirs to the great arch-apostate.
He rose up and told me to follow his wake,
And a walk through his kingdom, for pleasure, we’d take.
“I’ll show you,” said he, “how my quarters are crammed,
In their various regions, with ghosts of the damned.”
“I præ, sequar,” said I, “go ahead and I’ll follow;”
So he led me along, through a mighty big hollow;
On my right hand I saw what appeared to my sight
An iron-walled palace of towering height:
I scanned it with wonder, but as I drew nigher
I perceived that it was a huge furnace of fire:
Its apartments above, and its basement below
Were crowded with beings the image of woe;
“What is this?” was my query; the Devil replied,
“’Tis the place where my slave-holding children are fried;
As they said when on earth, that a white man must be
Above the vile nigger, it is so as you see:
The whites are above, and the niggers below,
The brimstone to stir and the bellows to blow;
But let us go on—you will see as you pass,
The punishment dire of a much meaner class;
That pit on the left is the dismal abode
Of a tribe who by thousands descend the broad road;
These are base hireling watchmen, who strove to increase
The size of the flock for the sake of the fleece,
No care had above for the souls of their charge,
But slept like dumb dogs while the wolf prowled at large.
There are priests of all classes, all creeds and all names
Condemned to be scorched in the sulphurous flames.
But the meanest by far of these groveling creatures
Are those factors of hell, the pro-slavery preachers,
Who insist that the Lord made the nigger’s skin black,
That the white man to Heaven might ride on his back;
They quote still from Scripture, and make it so plain,
To deny it were taking the Lord’s name in vain;
Disputing the fact were mere breath thrown away,
For is it not written, “Ye servants, obey?”
They drawl a long prayer, and a sermon comes next,
And “Cursed be Canaan,” they take for their text;
But here a new light on their vision has burst,
And they feel that themselves, not poor Canaan, are cursed.
Just a few steps ahead I will show you their station,
Close packed with those wretches who’d ruin your Nation.”
And soon, as we stood o’er a precipice dire,
I saw far beneath me the great Lake of Fire;
Like the sea in a tempest its surface was tossed,
While it swarmed with the pale, burning ghosts of the lost.
Rock-bounded on all sides, the deep, hollow roar
Of its surges resounded while lashing the shore,
The blackness of darkness—a sulphurous cloud,
Hung over the scene like a funeral shroud.
Yet plain by the glare of the red waves at play,
As they lashed the grim crags that flung back the hot spray,
Each wave in succession displayed on its crest
Some thousand pale ghosts who were riding abreast;
Till striking the crag they sank down from my sight,
And others rushed in, like to men in a fight;
Oh! wild were the shrieks and the wails that arose
From those as they sank, and from these as they rose;
So piercing and heart-rending was the sad strain,
That it thrilled me with horror—transfixed me with pain!
These words they ground out midst their dire suffocation:
“Oh God! from this hell grant us—emancipation,
Or else, in thy mercy, give annihilation!”
But hell bellowed back, “everlasting damnation!”
But, most frightful of all!—tiger-like and inhuman,
I hear the fierce howls of three men and one woman,
Whose necks, hung in halters right over the flood,
Are stretched by a wretch all bedabbled with blood!
All five call on “Lincoln” for mercy; when lo!
They are plunged, in a twinkling, to regions below;
Where long in the torrent they struggling remain,
Till the wave spews them up to its surface again;
There howling and writhing, unable to die,
Each visage distorted and bloodshot each eye,
For mercy in vain the assassins still cry!
Ah, Mercy they’ve slain!—Hope for them has no room,
Hell’s no longer a myth,—’tis the parricide’s doom!
The Devil here chuckled with joy and delight,
And seemed to be charmed with this horrible sight:
“This,” said he, “is the place where I demagogues throw
When they come here and ask for their lodgings below,
Since they never loved aught but loud brawling and strife,
And were true to no party or friend during life;
Ever turning and twisting, and dodging around,
No place more befitting for them could be found;
For here they’ll be tossing and dodging forever
Like drift-wood afloat on a rock-tortured river.
Here, too, let me point to you those wretched men
Who devote all their powers, both of tongue and of pen,
To prop the slave-holders, their code propagate,
Turn earth into hell through disunion and hate,
And to fan the fierce flames of your war have combined,
And, therefore, most justly have they been consigned
With the meanest of devils who dared to rebel,
To be scorched in the flames of the nethermost hell.
Here are lying reporters and editors, speakers,
And the old Union-savers and compromise shriekers,
With blood-sucking leeches and shoddy contractors,
Beneath loyal masks, much the worst malefactors,
Who smile, while your soldiers they starve and they rob,
More guilty, by far, than Buchanan or Cobb.
But a new class of sinners came not long ago,
And what to do with them I swear I don’t know;
I saw them, quite recently, stemming the Styx,
Sent here, I suppose, for their dastardly tricks:
(For of all who arrive here by night or by day,
There are none but the meanest who come by that way,)
Each floated down stream, at his ease, toward the lake,
A species of monster, half man and half snake;
Their heads crowned with copper, their bodies with scales,
Like scorpions they carried their stings in their tails;
And scarce had their feet touched the marl of our soil,
When hell, by their tricks, was thrown into a broil:
And now I am puzzled to know what to do
With this low-lived, this white-livered, COPPERHEAD crew.
It is true I would see the whole world come to hell,
I am fond of mean men, but these please me too well:
In their zeal for my cause and the good of this place,
They have brought my whole kingdom and cause to disgrace.
Though loyal to me and vile slaves to my throne,
While accepting their service, the tools I disown.
Since they serve without pay or a hope of reward,
I am bound by no bargain to show them regard:
I think I’ll just take them outside of the town,
Where the drainage, the filth and the offal are thrown,
And toss the whole pack of them into the ditch,
Then cover them over with sulphur and pitch;
Set fire to the mixture and leave them to cook,
To writhe in the flames, or to strangle with smoke;
And then I will drive them to earth back again,
To shiver in ice, howl in wind, hail and rain.
When Jefferson Davis and his rebel host
Shall arrive, by and by, at the gates of the lost,
I’ll meet, and assign them a place near my throne,
And Davis and Floyd shall be stars in my crown;
But this wretched crew to the ditch I’ll consign,
For, though true to my cause, I cannot call them mine.”
Just then came a messenger hastily down,
And called out, “Your Majesty’s wanted up town;
For another large batch of the peace-shrieking crew
Have come sneaking down here and are asking for you.”
His Majesty then grew quite black in the face;
“I’ll go and, by hell, kick them out of the place:
Their stench I detest, I cannot bear them near,
And I’ll soon let them know that they mustn’t stay here;
’Tis too much e’en for us, with our devilish natures,
To bear with such fallen, such cowardly, creatures.”
So saying, and wearing a terrible frown,
He seized a huge trident and hurried up town;
Then quickly I heard mingled whining and shrieking,
And, in thunder and wrath, old Beelzebub speaking:
“Get out of my court, you vile, dastardly crew,
You’re too mean to stay here where the common damned do.”
And then, like a man of his reason bereft,
He wielded his club and pitched in right and left.
They yelled, and shrieked “Peace, oh, pray, Satan, hold on,
We are loyal to you!”—cried Satan, “Begone!”
While the blows he dealt out made the peace-sneaks to scream;—
With their yells in my ears, I awoke from my dream!
My task is done, my work is ended;
Behold the Copperhead suspended
’Twixt Heaven and earth, in open air,
His whole anatomy laid bare;
Normal and morbid all made known,
In soul and body, nerve and bone!
Since Satan would not let him stay
In realms which shun the light of day;
(Where he in torture would abide,
If he his deep disgrace could hide,)
Here pilloried in sight of men,
Impaled on my steel-pointed pen,
Like Tantalus tormented ever,
Let vultures prey upon his liver,
Which, by some retributive power,
Still grows as fast as they devour,
Till passers-by shall point with scorn,
And cry, “’Twere better not be born,
Than thus to writhe in infamy,
As long as sun and stars shall be!”
And when, in some far future age,
The student of creation’s page
Shall dig his fossils from the ground,
And stand amazed, in doubt profound,
As to what species and what race
The monstrous reptile he can trace,
And wonder, with suspended breath,
His use or purpose on the earth;
These records all his doubts shall clear,
When he beholds him pictured here,
So fully, that who runs will read,
Then shudder, and increase his speed!
Thus much for science having won,
I take my leave, my task is done.
THE END.
[a] [c] [d] [e] [g] [h] [i] [j] [l] [m] [n] [o] [p] [q] [r] [t] [u] [v]
[w] [x] [y] [z] [1] [2] [3] Transcriber’s Note: It is not known what
these letters/numbers were intended to represent. There are no footnotes
in this or multiple other copies of the book.
“SIR COPP:”
A Book for the Times, in Six Cantos. By THOMAS CLARKE, Author of
“A Day in May,” “Donna Rosa,” “The Silent Village,” “Life in the West,”
&c., &c.
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.
_From the Chicago Tribune_
In this work we welcome another home production. It is written in
Hudibrastic verse; but the genius of the author is by no means confined
to this form of composition. The object of the author is praise-worthy,
and he exhibits much talent for versification. We must, injustice,
commend the work for many striking and some admirable passages. “Sir
Copp,” is of course, Sir Copperhead; and the venomous creature is
dissected by an artist who has a true scientific enthusiasm for so fine
a specimen of morbid anatomy. The invocation to the muse is especially
striking, (here it is quoted in full.) Mr. Clarke is not an untried poet.
He has, in fact, produced a number of poems, for which the best English
critics have accorded to him a high rank amongst the first poets of our
day.
_From the Chicago Evening Journal_
Under the title of “SIR COPP,” is depicted the character of a
copperhead, whose career closes at the gates of hell. The story is a
contrast of patriotism with disloyalty; the theme growing out of the late
rebellion. The poetry is lively in measure. The author’s former works
drew down the encomiums of several good authorities in literary matters.
The volume is highly creditable to the publishers.
_From the Chicago Republican._
Mr. Clarke is favorably known to the reading public as the author of
several poems published in England, which have received warm praise from
the leading English reviews. The purpose of this effort of his muse
is to contrast a dark phase of human depravity, as exhibited by the
copperhead rebels of the northern states, with the beauty and power of
loyalty to God and country. Incidentally, he satirises Tennyson, mourns
over the grave of Lincoln, and celebrates the heroes of Murfreesboro,
and many another bloody field. He writes with a sharp pen, and shows
no mercy to the traitors. “Sir Copp,” having undergone a severe moral
and physical dissection, is introduced by the author into hell, whence
Satan, unwilling to entertain him, sends him back to earth to be punished
according to his deserts.
_From the Staats Zeitung (German.)_
Mr. Thomas Clarke, a celebrated British Poet, who lives here in the West,
has produced a poem under the title of “Sir Copp,” in which he shows
forth the copperheads and their actions during the war. He is amongst the
warmest friends of America, extols liberty and patriotism, and does ample
justice to our German American citizens.
* * * * *
New Work, by the Author of “Sir Copp,”
(_WILL BE READY IN THE SPRING, ’67_,)
ENTITLED
THE TWO ANGELS
_Or, LOVE-LED_.
A POEM, IN SIX CANTOS.
The story is of Heaven and earth, and is one of the deepest interest. It
is a book of great merit, and no doubt will be extensively read.
The volume will contain upwards of two hundred pages small octavo,
printed with clear, readable type, on fine paper, and will be neatly
bound.
GEO. W. CLARKE, Publisher,
_215 ILLINOIS ST., CHICAGO_.