"And Montezuma's halls shall _ring_."
What! (reasoned I) is this the sequel to the Democratic meeting of last
night? Has Mars, who presided at the town-hall, a seat in the
lecture-room of this Theological Seminary? As the young man proceeded,
however, I perceived that his poem was, in fact, a denunciation of the
horrors of war,--not, as I had supposed, the composition of another
person committed to memory, and now rehearsed as an exercise in
elocution, but entirely his own. It was altogether a creditable
performance. The Professors at the close made their criticisms upon it,
which were all highly favourable. Dr. Beecher said, "My only criticism
is, _Print it, print it_." The venerable Doctor, with the natural
partiality of a tutor, afterwards observed to me he had never heard
anything against war that took so strong a hold of his feelings as that
poem. Dr. Stowe also told me that Mr. Armstrong was considered a young
man of fine talents and great devotion; and that some of the students
had facetiously said, "Brother Armstrong was so pious that even the
dogs would not bark at him!"
Mr. Armstrong was not at all disposed to take his tutor's advice. But
he favoured me with a copy of his poem, on condition that I would not
cause it to be printed in America,--in England I might. It contains
some turgid expressions, some halting and prosaic lines, and might be
improved by a severe revision; but, besides its interest as a
Transatlantic college-exercise, I feel it possesses sufficient merit to
relieve the tediousness of my own prose.
"'_On_--to the glorious conflict--ON!'--
Is heard throughout the land,
While flashing columns, thick and strong,
Sweep by with swelling band.
'Our country, right or wrong,' they shout,
'Shall still our motto he:
With _this_ we are prepared to rout
Our foes from sea to sea.
Our own right arms to us shall bring
The victory and the spoils;
And Montezuma's halls shall ring,
When there we end our toils.'
ON, then, ye brave' like tigers rage,
That you may win your crown,
Mowing both infancy and age
In ruthless carnage down.
Where flows the tide of life and light,
Amid the city's hum,
There let the cry, at dead of night,
Be heard, 'They come, they come!'
Mid scenes of sweet domestic bliss,
Pour shells of livid fire,
While red-hot balls among them hiss,
To make the work entire
And when the scream of agony
Is heard above the din,
_Then_ ply your guns with energy,
And throw your columns in
Thro' street and lane, thro' house and church,
The sword and faggot hear,
And every inmost recess search,
To fill with shrieks the air
Where waving fields and smiling homes
Now deck the sunny plain,
And laughter-loving childhood roams
Unmoved by care or pain;
Let famine gaunt and grim despair
Behind you stalk along,
And pestilence taint all the air
With victims from the strong
Let dogs from mangled beauty's cheeks
The flesh and sinews tear,
And craunch the bones around for weeks,
And gnaw the skulls till bare
Let vultures gather round the heaps
Made up of man and beast,
And, while the widowed mother weeps,
Indulge their horrid feast,
Till, startled by wild piteous groans,
On dreary wings they rise,
To come again, mid dying moans,
And tear out glazing eyes
_Tho'_ widows' tears, and orphans' cries,
When starving round the spot
Where much-loved forms once met their eyes
Which now are left to rot,
With trumpet-tongue, for vengeance call
Upon each guilty head
That drowns, mid revelry and brawls,
Remembrance of the dead.
_Tho'_ faint from fighting--wounded--wan,
To camp you'll turn your feet,
And no sweet, smiling, happy home,
Your saddened hearts will greet:
No hands of love--no eyes of light--
Will make your wants their care,
Or soothe you thro' the dreary night,
Or smooth your clotted hair.
But crushed by sickness, famine, thirst,
You'll strive in vain to sleep,
Mid corpses mangled, blackened, burst,
And blood and mire deep;
While horrid groans, and fiendish yells,
And every loathsome stench,
Will kindle images of hell
You'll strive in vain to quench.
Yet _on_--press on, in all your might,
With banners to the field,
And mingle in the glorious fight,
With Satan for your shield:
For marble columns, if you die,
_May_ on them bear your name;
While papers, tho' they sometimes lie,
Will praise you, or will blame.
Yet woe! to those who build a house,
Or kingdom, not by right,--
Who in their feebleness propose
Against the Lord to fight.
For when the Archangel's trumpet sounds,
And all the dead shall hear,
And haste from earth's remotest bounds
In judgment to appear,--
When every work, and word, and _thought_,
Well known or hid from sight,
Before the Universe is brought
To blaze in lines of light,--
When by the test of _perfect_ law
Your '_glorious_' course is tried,
On what resources will you draw?--
In what will you confide?
For know that eyes of awful light
Burn on you from above,
Where nought but kindness meets the sight,
And all the air is love.
When all unused to such employ
As charms the angelic hands,
How can you hope to share their joy
Who dwell in heavenly lands?"
Such was the poem of Frederick Alexander Armstrong. After its
rehearsal, a young gentleman _read_ a prose Essay on Education. It was
clever, and indicated a mind of a high order, but was too playful; and
the performance was severely criticised. Here ended the "public
declamation."