The hurried wall that o'er it rose
The shriek that cursed its murderous close?
When morning dawned 'twas bright as e'er,
But not amid the throng appear
Those charms which erst were wont to glow
So brightly in the pageant's show;
And, though they searched the castle o'er-
Though every tongue in sorrow spoke-
Since that unhallowed morning broke,
The one they sought was found no more.
What tyrant's hand, what stern array,
Can bolt, or bar, or dungeon find
To stay the soarings of the mind,
E'en when begirt with chains of clay?
Then, when the dust hath found its own,
And, fetterless, the soul hath gone,
Shall not its angel-pinions wave
High o'er the darkness of the grave?
And if there be some cherished scene
Where deathless memory lingers yet—
Some spot which green and bright had been
Before the sun of life had set;
Or, if there be some withered spot
Beyond the grave yet unforgot,
Round which life's darker curtains hung,
O'er which her cloud had passion flung,
Then say why, after life's sad close,
May not the spirit circle o'er,
As perfume haunts the faded rose,
The realms it blessed or cursed before?
Why when the noisy day hath past,
And midnight's shades are round us cast,
May not the soul delight to fling
The shadow of its silver wing
Around the mortal couch where those
It loved in life's dark vale, repose?
To heal the mourner's wounded breast,
To soothe each waking grief to rest,
Or robed in godlike justice, throw
Its lightning on the guilty brow?
May not the spark that never dies
Start from its ashes into flame?
Uncalled, may not the spirit rise,
As erst the spell-bound prophet's came?
Enough the grave alone can tell
How fare the tenants of its cell,
And they who sleep or dream below,
Its secret realms alone may know.
But this they say, that human eye
Oft sees a maiden form go by,
When death or sorrow hangs its pall
Around Colalto's guilty hall.
When danger haunts the bloody chase,
That form outstrips the courser's pace;
By night, by day, that form is still
The shadow of some coming ill;
And, ever robed in virgin white,
With marble smile and eye of light,
Hath been, through all its wav'ring state,
The herald of Colalto's fate.
Time hath not blanched a single hair
Of those which made that brow more fair;
Not years on years have taught to die
The lustre of that fadeless eye!
Of her who spake that maiden's doom,
They know not now the mouldered tomb,
Nor seek they in what unseen shade
Her children's children's bones are laid;
But when, at twilight's dreamy hour,
The huntsman spurs his lagging steed
To cross Colalto's haunted mead
Ere ghostlier still the shadows low'r,
If rustles by the evening air,
To Mary's throne he lifts his prayer,
That she who rules the twilight grove
Will shield him with a mother's love;
Or crosses fervently his breast,
As o'er his path dim visions roll,
That He, who gives the weary rest,
Will calm that maiden's troubled soul.
The anchors are weighed, and the gates of your prison
Fall wide, as your ship gives her prow to the foam,
And a few hurried hours shall return you, exulting,
Where the flag you have fought for floats over your home.
God send that not long may its folds be uplifted
O'er fields dark and sad with the trail of the fight; God give it the triumph He always hath given,
Or sooner or later, to Valor and Right!
But if Peace may not yet wreathe your brows with her olive, And new victims are still round her altar to bleed,
God shield you amid the red bolts of the battle,
God give you stout hearts for high thought and brave deed!
No need we should bid you go strike for your freedom-
Ye have stricken, like men, for its blessings, before;
And your homes and your loved ones, your wrongs and your
manhood,
Will nerve you to fight the good fight, o'er and o'er!
But will ye not think, as ye wave your glad banners,
How the flag of Old Maryland, trodden in shame,
Lies, sullied and torn, in the dust of her highways,
And will ye not strike a fresh blow in her name?
Her mothers have sent their first-born to be with
Wherever with blood there are fields to be won;
Her daughters have wept for you, clad you, and nursed you,
Their hopes, and their vows, and their smiles, are your own!
Let her cause be your cause, and whenever the war-cry
Bids you rush to the field, oh! remember her too;
And when Freedom and Peace shall be blended in Glory,
Oh! count it your shame, if she be not with you!
And if, in the hour when pride, honor, and duty
Shall stir every throb in the hearts of brave men,
The wrongs of the helpless can quicken such pulses,
Let the captives at Warren give flame to them then!
'Tis not in anthems that from builded fanes
Go up with smoke of incense; in the wail
Of sorrow, or repentance, nor the cry
Of supplicating anguish—not in all
The prayers that living lips can syllable,
Nor in the throb of adoration mute,
That stirs the breathless spirit on the shore
Of the lone ocean, or when midnight's stars
Slow swing their ceaseless censers, or the flowers
And seasons lift our hearts to Him whose hand
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