Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/328

 312 GEORGE W. CUTTER. [1840-50. The memory of that glorious strife Will live in future years, THE PRESS. To us the darkest page of life — The deepest source of tears. Soul of the world! the Press! the Press! What wonders hast thou wrought ! We saw thee when the countless horde Closed round thee from afar, And through the smoke thy gleaming Thou rainbow realm of mental bliss ; Thou starry sky of thought ! As dew unto the thirsty flowers ; As the blessed light of heaven ; sword Became our guiding star ; We followed till before their might And widely as the summer showers, Thy silent aid is given. Our feeble ranks were riven ; Yet canst thou flame upon the earth Even then thy face was beaming bright Like the dread volcano's glow ; As if 'twere lit from heaven. And tyrants tremble at thy birth We saw their steel above thy head As at an earthquake's throe. Hast thou not ht the darkest land, Flash like a radiant crown ; And broke the fellest chain And, like a bolt by lightning sped, Thy saber cleave them down ; And where the fiery tempest pour'd Thy hand still waved us on ; There still thy trumpet voice was heard; There still thy sword was drawn. The despot's red accursed hand Shall never forge again ? Another sun ! thy brightness rose O'er the dark benighted world. And on thy panic-stricken foes Thy lightning flashes hurled. ^nd when the shout of victory W Rang in thy warrior ears, Dark superstition crouched where'er Thy thunder scathing fell, 'Twas a triumph to the foe to see Thy blood upon their spears ; But a mournful shade came back again Upon their features wild, To see the gory heaps of slain Thy single arm had piled. And the murd'rous bigot quaked with fear, As at the flames of hell. And priestly craft and kingly power Have striven to bind thee down ; But ah, how low beneath thee cower The miter and the crown ! Buena Vista ! when the sun Set o'er the battle cloud. The sulphur vapors, dark and dun, Lay o'er thee like a shroud ; Thy nod can lop the proudest head ; The world thy scepter owns ; The path thou dost to glory tread, That path is paved with thrones. And the wounded and the dying O'er all thy hills were strewn, And the red path of the flying Was lighted by the moon. Yet art thou gentle as the breeze — The latest breath of day ; But chainless as the mighty seas, In thy resistless sway. At thy command the seals were broke That bound the silent deep, And liberty and truth awoke 1 1 From centuries of sleep.