We might have peace, the rather. When the foe
Turned scornfully upon thee,--bade thee go,
And whistled up his war-hounds, then--the way
Of duty full before thee,--thou didst spring
Into the centre of the martial ring--
Thy brave blood boiling, and thy glorious eye,
Shot with heroic fire, and swear to claim
Sublimest victory in God's own name,--
Or, wrapped in robes of martyrdom,--to die!




JACKSON.

A SONNET.


Thank God for such a Hero!--Fearless hold
His diamond character beneath the sun,
And brighter scintillations, one by one,
Come flashing from it. Never knight of old
Wore on serener brow, so calm, yet bold,
Diviner courage: never martyr knew
Trust more sublime,--nor patriot, zeal more true,--
Nor saint, self-abnegation of a mould
Touched with profounder beauty. All the rare,
Clear, starry points of light, that gave his soul
Such lambent lustre, owned but one sole aim,--
Not for himself, nor yet his country's fame,