And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;--
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

Oh better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!





THE LAST LEAF

This poem was suggested by the appearance in one of our
streets of a venerable relic of the Revolution, said to be one
of the party who threw the tea overboard in Boston Harbor. He
was a fine monumental specimen in his cocked hat and knee
breeches, with his buckled shoes and his sturdy cane. The smile
with which I, as a young man, greeted him, meant no disrespect to
an honored fellow-citizen whose costume was out of date, but whose
patriotism never changed with years. I do not recall any earlier
example of this form of verse, which was commended by the fastidious