-.A . ,-.^ ' 
 
 PS 3158 
 .M59 
 Copy 1 POEM, 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER THOUGHTS, 
 
 SUGGESTED UFON THE DEATH OF 
 
 HON. DANIEL WEBSTER 
 
 ' So much of Deity, how couldst thou 
 
 Lift thy icy hand and slay him, monster Death?" 
 
 BY PRAIRIE BIRD 
 
 A LADY OF MASSACHUSETTS. SOLD ONLY BY HERSELF. 
 
 ^- 
 
 \/U' 
 
 — u 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR 
 
 1853. 
 
POEM, 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER THOUGHTS, 
 
 SUGGESTED UPON THE DEATH OF 
 
 HON. DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 " So much of Deity, how couldst thou 
 Lift thy icy hand and slay him, monster Death ? " 
 
 BY PRAIRIE BIRD, .^^6^' 
 I 
 
 A LADY OF MASSACHUSETTS. SOLD ONLY BY HERSELF. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 1853. 
 
 jm 
 
F 
 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1853, 
 By MariJWardJVTeli^an^^ 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachueetts. 
 
 
v^ 
 
 POEM 
 
 Not for the leaf that falls without a sigh ; 
 Not for the flower that bows its head to die ; 
 Not for the tree, that waves its leafless bough ; — 
 Oh ! not for these I'm filled with anguish now. 
 Not for the bird that left its downy nest, 
 Whose gladsome notes once cheered the mourner's 
 
 breast ; 
 Not for the grass and herb that must depart ; — 
 No, not for these hath sorrow veiled my heart ! 
 Oh ! not for these I move my trembling pen : 
 These all depart — but lo ! they come again. 
 
 But 'tis for him whose soul was truth and love, 
 Bright star now shining in yon world above ; 
 Thou whom a nation loves — our hope, our stay, 
 Lamp to our feet, and guide through all the way. 
 To thy fond memory — thou whom saints admire, 
 Spirit of light ! I strike my trembling lyre ! 
 Oh ! thou immortal, whom we oft did scan, 
 And paused, to find so much of God in man ! 
 
 May I, frail creature, lift my eyes to heaven. 
 And pray that strength to me may now be given 
 To utter forth, in strains of loudest praise. 
 One lay to thee I've loved through half my days. 
 
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 mb. 
 
 Immortal Webster ! teaclier of my youth, 
 Thy pen of fire hath taught me virtue, truth. 
 By it I've learned of freedom's holy flame ; 
 By it I've learned to love, to bless thy name. 
 Then perish all ; thy memory like a spell. 
 Round Freedom's altar shall forever dwell. 
 
 But thou art gone ! Thy place is vacant now ; 
 
 Oh ! for to gaze once more upon thy thoughtful brow 
 
 Oh ! for to hear thy rich toned voice again 
 
 Send forth in eloquence some rapturous strain. 
 
 And give new life to the more feeble mind ; 
 
 To teach the ignorant, and instruct the blind ; 
 
 To paint the path of error to the young. 
 
 And bid them shun it, as a viper's tongue ; 
 
 To show that right will overcome the wrong, 
 
 And break her bands of sin, however strong. 
 
 To teach our nation that a people free 
 Must first of all things learn consistency, 
 That union, peace, and love must ever flow 
 From heart to heart, if we would freedom know ; 
 That Truth and Mercy, with their smiling band, 
 Should scatter discord from our pleasant land ; 
 To live in union such as angels know, 
 Was thine to live, to teach, while here below. 
 Immortal one ! 0, be it ours to know 
 And teach thy virtues to mankind below ! 
 
 But thou art gone ! Columbia's hills no more 
 Shall feel thy foot-tread, as in days of yore ; 
 
No more upon tlieir tops for thee shall wave 
 The spangled banner — emblem of the brave. 
 No more for thee the festal board is spread, 
 Nor garlands wave to deck thy honored head. 
 No songs of joy shall break upon the air, 
 Nor little children strew their flowers fair ; 
 No tiny hands for thee shall more be raised, 
 Nor little prattlers join when thou art praised. 
 Our nation mourns ; our hearts are veiled in gloom. 
 Since thou hast won- him, thou silent tomb ! 
 
 Not for the conqueror, slumbering on his bier ; 
 Not for the warrior — drop I pity's tear ; 
 Not for the man who storms the mighty flood, 
 And won his laurels by his brother's blood, 
 Whose sword was raised with an unyielding hand, 
 And human gore o'erspread the verdant land. 
 Not for the heart unmoved by pity's call, 
 But for the heart that felt and beat for all. 
 Immortal Webster ! who can sing thy praise, 
 Or tell thy greatness in their simple lays 
 Without a tear, without a broken sigh. 
 To think that such as thou must droop and die ? 
 
 Immortal one ! oh ! as I think of thee, 
 I'm lost in thought, that so much Deity 
 Could dwell in man ; that in the mortal clod 
 Could dwell so much the likeness of our God. 
 Thou taught of God, thou knew thy maker's will, 
 Thou'rt called of God a higher place to fill. 
 Come then, my soul, and think upon thy way. 
 O, feeble mortal, oh ! what can I say ? 
 
I tarn aside, I start with mortal fear ; 
 
 The spirit of the mighty draweth near, 
 
 Not to reproach me for my simple lay, 
 
 But cheers me on, his chity I obey. 
 
 I move my pen, all praise to him I give, 
 
 Whose voice I hear, 'tis me, I yet doth live. 
 
 I still live ! '^ oh ! by those words of thine. 
 
 Thy memory '11 live throughout all coming time. 
 
 The good will love them ; they will ever keep 
 
 Them fresh in memory — o'er them often weep. 
 
 Great man thou wert, and far above thy race, 
 And now 'mid seraphs shines thy radient face. 
 Thousands, ten thousands are around thee now, 
 A victor's wreath adorns thy sainted brow. 
 Far above myriads of the host of heaven, 
 A seat beside thy God to thee is given. 
 Angels, bright seraphs now around thee stand, 
 Thou most admired of all that heavenly band. 
 
 Oh ! thou Great Being ! thou Eternal God, 
 
 Who breathed thy spirit in a lifeless clod. 
 
 And made it live, and move, and think and see, 
 
 And feel itself a part of Deity ; 
 
 Who calls, and lo ! that spirit must return. 
 
 And leave the casket slumbering in the urn — 
 
 Oh ! let thy spirit now on us descend. 
 
 As we now mourn our lost, our honored friend. 
 
 And as we weep, O, hear the broken sigh. 
 
 Bow down, ye heavens, and hear a nation's cry ! 
 
Like dew descending on the withered vine, 
 Spirit of God ! refresh these souls of thine. 
 We mourn, for one the earth did prize the most. 
 We ask tliy aid, 0, thou great God of hosts ! 
 Thou gave him — took him to thyself again ; 
 We kiss the rod, but feel the sharpest pain. 
 Our hearts were centered ; he, our country's stay, 
 When hope was brightest, called by God away. 
 
 Great God of mercy, we thy aid implore ! 
 Guide thou our feet till all life's toils are o'er. 
 And may we follow our departed saint. 
 With all his virtues, 0, our hearts acquaint. 
 May we know right, and may we understand 
 The right to govern this our pleasant land ; 
 Remembering this, the spirit that has fled 
 Will hover o'er us, though the body's dead. 
 
 Freedom's bright star ! 0, thou illustrious one — 
 Thou wert of all, our nation's proudest son. 
 Wave, leafless branches, wave around the bed 
 Where sleeps the mighty and the honored dead ! 
 Blow soft, ye zephyrs ! waft a sweet perfume 
 Around his bed, proud tenant of the tomb. 
 Blow, autumn winds ! for in your spirit-voice, 
 There comes a song that makes the heart rejoice, 
 And fills the mind with hope's refulgent ray. 
 And tells of worlds that feel no swift decay. 
 
 Hark ! from the tomb there comes a voice to me, 
 From Marshfield's soil, where dwelt the noble free ; 
 
 J. 
 
 ^gcK 
 
From the cold walls around that noble one 
 
 "Whose life has ended, and whose work is done. 
 
 A voice that speaks more loud than rolling seas ; 
 
 A voice that's heard above the sweeping breeze ; 
 
 A voice that speaks of liberty and love, 
 
 Of duty here, of joys in heaven above ; 
 
 A voice that tells of honor, deeds of fame, 
 
 All, all embodied in our Webster's name. 
 
 Old Plymouth Rock 's where once thy voice was 
 
 heard, 
 Which made the waves reply to every word ; 
 Where liberty and man's best good was heard, 
 At which the very waters trembled, stirred, 
 And echoed back, as, dashing on the shore, 
 Liberty or death ! now and for evermore. 
 Proud Webster, in thy giant mind I see 
 Far less of man, but more of Deity. 
 
 But thou art gone ; and hearts no more will beat 
 
 With joy ecstatic at thy approaching feet ; 
 
 No hands shall lift the starry banner high. 
 
 And shout thy welcome to the vaulted sky. 
 
 No more in halls of learning thou wilt stand 
 
 Among the genius of thy native land. 
 
 No more thy voice like mighty floods shall roll 
 
 And bind, as with a chain, the human soul. 
 
 That voice no more shall echo o'er the sea. 
 
 And startle kings, at thoughts of liberty. 
 
 That thoughtful brow, that eye, that noble form,. 
 
 All, all forever from our vision gone. 
 
 0, weep, my country, drop the silent tear. 
 
 For all thy hopes were borne upon that bier I 
 
POEM. 9 
 
 Nor would I close my feeble little song 
 Without a word of praise where praise belongs. 
 To her who lives — who lives to mourn and weep, 
 For him who sleeps the long, the long, long sleep. 
 woman ! whose relationship in life 
 Claimed the endearing tie of mother, wife. 
 Though deep the anguish of thy tender heart, 
 When called with him, thy husband, for to part, 
 For in that word is centered all the love 
 That's felt on earth, or known in heaven above. 
 May consolation now from heaven descend. 
 And to thy mourning heart new courage lend ; 
 And give the grace to bear without a sigh, 
 Until thou join thy loved one up on high. 
 Sleep, holy dead ! a nation's hope and trust ! 
 A voice comes forth from out that slumbering dust, 
 And stirs the life blood in our very veins. 
 And bids us sing thy praise in highest strains. 
 
 And when that morn shall dawn upon the tomb. 
 When light from Heaven shall break the silent 
 
 gloom. 
 Then shall that spirit that now lives with God 
 Eeturn and animate that slumbering clod. 
 Then shall that form come forth at Jesus' call, 
 More beautiful than man before his fall. 
 The light again shall beam from out thy eye, 
 That form shall stand erect, no more to die. 
 Then shall he live, no more a feeble clod. 
 But man restored, proud image of his God. 
 
Blow, autumn winds, blow softly round the tomb ; 
 Let the still voice be heard from out its gloom ; 
 Let MarshfiekVs soil, where once the great man 
 
 found 
 A quiet home, be kept as hallowed ground. 
 May every pilgrim, as he wanders there, 
 By that cold tomb, lift up his voice in prayer, 
 That those grea! truths which burn with kindling 
 
 ray, 
 Shall live and grow more bright, though worlds 
 
 decay. 
 Great scholar ! thy country's stay and pride ; 
 How great her loss, and all the world's beside. 
 Proud of thy life, which to the world we give. 
 Proud of thy death, which says, " I still live.'* 
 

 THOUHTS, ETC. 
 
 The wise, the talented, and the good have tuned 
 their harps and touched the gentle chords in praise of 
 the immortal Webster ; and though feeble justice is all 
 that will ever be done to the greatness of our country's 
 pride ; though no tongue is capable of uttering half 
 the praise of one so noble ; though no pen is able to 
 tell the glory that departed from our land as that light 
 went out from that heaven-lit eye ; yet who can refrain 
 from adding their mite to the goodly number of tributes 
 which are so justly due the memory of him who has 
 be^n our teacher, our father of learning, our country's 
 schoolmaster ? To him we owe our all for the exhaust- 
 less store of knowledge that has been diffiused 
 throughout our country and the world. And the 
 inquiry may arise. Where are the gifted ones that are 
 to pour forth their noble strains to the memory of one 
 so beloved? Is it for the politician — the brave, 
 dauntless politician? Is it for the great and over- 
 stocked minds of the learned, the rich, and the popular 
 men of our land ? Yes, it is for them, and for every 
 intelligent being whose mind was capable of appre- 
 ciating that star of our country, by whose splendor and 
 greatness we have thought him unequalled on earth. 
 By whose great and powerful mind we have been led to 
 
think liim so much of Deity itself, that he would never 
 bow that noble form to the icy touch of the monster — 
 Death. 
 
 It is for every creature of intelligence, then, to offer 
 up a deserving tribute to the memory of one so de- 
 serving his country's praise. The wise, the talented, 
 the good, the rich, the poor — from the palace halls, 
 where live the favored of earth's children ; from the 
 low cot of the peasant, the poor but intelligent man, 
 let come the loud songs of praise to the great man's 
 memory, who hath left his country so rich an inherti- 
 ance. Though the tears dim the eye, and the voice 
 trembles as it attempts to offer praise, let the words of 
 the dead cheer thy heart, remembering that by carrying 
 out those principles of right which were laid down 
 from the highest good of our country, every breeze that 
 fans your cheek, and every gentle zephyr that blows, 
 will bear upon their unseen wings the voice of him you 
 mourn, and his low soft voice will whisper in your ear, 
 " I still live." 
 
 Women of America ! to you and to your children I 
 would earnestly appeal. Do you think you have met 
 with a loss by the death of so great a man as was 
 Daniel Webster ? Do you think it all the work of the 
 opposite sex to make mention of such a loss to our 
 country ? The political field belongs to man, and as 
 for us, we envy not the position one occupies therein. 
 But we look not upon the immortal Webster as upon 
 one whose whole interests were centered in the ad- 
 vancement of political glory. Not so. For while he 
 labored unceasingly for his country's best good in that 
 respect, he also labored for the advancement of every 
 
 K 
 
high and social principle which would add to the edu- 
 cation of our children, and leave a lasting, a shining 
 remembrance around the family hearth-stone. To you, 
 then, daughters of America, you who are to train the 
 young mind, and make it a bright and shining star, to 
 you I call. If we credit the declaration which has 
 come from the mouths of many of our great men, we 
 must admit the fact that if ever our sons become 
 great and useful men, it will be in great measure owing 
 to the influence of their mothers. How often do we 
 hear from those who are at the head of our country, 
 those great lights of our land, the simple, but truthful 
 story of the fireside counsel, the early lessons of godli- 
 ness, of morality and truth, the true principles of 
 greatness which were instilled into their youthful minds 
 at an early period of life, when the heart was made 
 tender by thoughts of purity, all of which had grown 
 with their growth and strengthened with their strength, 
 until years had whitened the locks which were then 
 raven, and all those good and cherished principles 
 were attributed to the teachings of kind and dutiful 
 mothers. 
 
 Then shall we, who live and enjoy so much light, fail 
 to teach our sons the true aims of life ? Mother, as you 
 visit the spot where the dust of that great and noble 
 man reposes ; when you lead your little ones to that 
 hallowed ground, remember you have other and higher 
 duties to perform than in cherishing a recollection of 
 the place and scenes around you. You have, or should 
 have, nobler purposes in view, when you lead your timid 
 boy to the cold tomb of our great and noble Webster. 
 By that silent tomb you can make lasting impressions 
 
upon the young mind. You can recall to mind the 
 history of the sleeper's early days, when, like your boy, 
 he sported in childish innocence. You can follow up 
 his life, from youth to age, with the most instructing 
 and pleasing incidents ; you may have yourself listened 
 to that voice which, once heard, would never be for- 
 gotten ; and you may have seen the fire of genius flash 
 from that eye. You may have thought earth never 
 claimed so noble a soul, or owned so proud a son ; his 
 words may have penetrated your soul ; his mighty mind 
 may have led you to think him more than mortal ; yet 
 you can look upon the tomb and tell the little one by 
 your side where sleeps the mighty of earth. Mothers, 
 let the voice of the dead come forth from out that 
 charnel house, and assure you of the importance of in- 
 stilling wisdom into the hearts of your sons. Who but 
 a mother can do this work ? Who can discharge such 
 a duty more faithfully ? Who but the mother, that has 
 her child ever by her side, will be accountable for 
 negligence ? 
 
 Pilgrim ! as you journey to the last resting place of 
 our country's pride ; as you pause before that tomb, to 
 read the plain inscription ; how will the recollections of 
 past scenes come up before the mind, and the heart 
 be pained at the thought of the tomb's holding one so 
 useful, so highly blessed above his fellow men ! That 
 never more he can walk the earth and converse with 
 mortals ; that his glory has departed, though his mem- 
 ory lives. How deep the anguish of the human breast 
 to know such must die ! Bright star of our nation ! how 
 many hearts were pained when thy work was done ! 
 How many souls were veiled in gloom when death set 
 
his signet upon that thoughtful brow. The loud wail of 
 our nation was heard across the mighty waters, and the 
 united lamentations of the old world served to show I 
 how great a man had fallen. How dark the night that 
 settled down upon our land, when the watchman an- 
 nounced, "Our star has set — our nation's great and 
 mighty son has given up the ghost! " How deep was 
 the anguish that filled every breast. Tears fell from 
 eyes unused to weeping, and tongues that never had 
 said aught in the great man's favor, were first to praise. 
 O, thou great and illustrious man! — thou who walked 
 the 'earth, and found pleasure among the children of 
 men • thou who could move mighty men to see their 
 errors, and startle tyrants with thy truth ; thou who 
 could chain the mind of a Cicero, and make the ancient 
 fathers of learning tremble^ thou who stood m halls ot 
 learning in our own happy land, and sent forth words 
 which run like the wind through the land ; thou who 
 could move upon the minds of the people, and nerve 
 them up to duty and honor ; thou, who, with a sympa- 
 thetic look and a sentence of love could make the 
 hearts of the brave throb with tender commotion : thou 
 who had a heart big with love for thy country s good ; 
 thou who was touched with pity at the misfortunes of 
 men, and whose benevolence sent the poor smiling from 
 thv door ; thou whom we had thought to call the peo- 
 ple's ruler -our Republic's head -thou art gone! 
 tJ winter's ley mantle has covered the earth, one 
 season of birds and flowers has ^^en ^nw^^' 7. 
 mid-summer's sun has shed its rays upon thy cold sepul 
 Thre and the familiar scenes through which thou wert 
 wont to roam have been veiled in sorrow. 
 
16 THOUGHTS, ETC. 
 
 Another autumn has come ; the season for the depart- 
 ure of all that is delightful in Nature's garden. The 
 birds have ceased to sing ; the flowers have bowed 
 their heads to die. The unnumbered leaves are flying 
 in the air, and falling upon the earth in worthless heaps. 
 
 The season of sadness, of melancholy recollections 
 has come, when the memory is brought to view the sad 
 scenes of the last autumn, which filled a nation with the 
 pang of woe. One year ago, and how anxious did we 
 wait to hear the answer, as our inquiry went forth, 
 " Does he yet live ? " And when the messenger brought 
 the summons of that spirit's exit to a higher life ; when 
 our ears heard, then our hearts, though sad, were 
 cheered by that voice ( which never failed to give life 
 to our feeble man) and the sentence, "I still live ! " 
 urged us on to duty. 
 
 Will America ever call so noble a being her son 
 again ? Will not days, months, and years, as they roll 
 away, bring to the mind his thousand virtues, and 
 cause the sigh to escape, and the lips to move in prayer 
 for the rich store of useful knowledge that has been 
 and will be perpetuated to all coming generations? 
 Forget to be, e'er thou forget the name of Daniel 
 Webster, my country ! The tombs of martyrs, the 
 temples of kings, the sepulchres of the mighty ones of 
 old, shall not be kept more sacred than thy resting 
 place. Our own free shores have been thy home, and 
 in the heart of thy country thy dust reposeth. The feet 
 of other men, who have crossed the deep waters, will 
 tread around thy tomb. The great and the noble of all 
 lands will yearn to know thy resting place, and to drop 
 a tear upon Marshfield's soil. 
 
THE NATION'S WAIL. 
 
 Written November, 1852. 
 
 Almighty, Heavenly One! 
 Hear our prayer — thy will be done. 
 Though our hearts are filled with grief, 
 Thou, God, can give relief. 
 
 Mourn we now in sorrow sore ; 
 Mourn as we ne'er mourned before. 
 What to our hearts can solace give. 
 Save this sweet sentence, " I still live ? " 
 
 0, holy dead, these words will live ; 
 Encouragement to us they '11 give, 
 To follow in the path thou trod — 
 Thou less of man, but more of God. 
 
 When dark clouds are hovering near, 
 Who will now disperse our fear ? 
 Who in union hearts will bind ? 
 UiKliscoverable the mind. 
 
 Our staff is broken ; but thy rod 
 Must lead us on, 0, righteous God ! 
 Our country's loss, great God repair. 
 Heal bleeding hearts, and answer prayer 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 ^ 018 603 054 0^