HERE rests the harp that once was strung,
By fair Ohio's beauteous stream,
Whose silvery chords so often sung
Of life's bright joys and love's sweet theme ? Have they no voice in these dark hours, To wake again the silent string, And move once more the lyric powers, That erst for us were wont to sing?
Where rests the harp, whose gentle notes
Came wafted o'er the mountain steep,
Like some delicious strain that floats
Amid the rosy bowers of sleep?
Waiting, I list, and fondly trust,
The minstrel hand that slumbereth long,
Will rouse and shake away the dust,
And give the lyre a nation's song.
Ay, sing of love-the patriot's love;
Of Freedom and her glowing charms;
Of that dear flag that waves above
Our homes in peace-our hosts in arms;
And tell, O poet! of the stains
Which treason casts upon our name, And how the blood that fills our veins Must flow to hide the cursed shame.
And now, methinks, thy harp awakes.
The dust is fallen from its chords;
Sonorously its pæan breaks
Above the clang of clashing swords,
And rolls along the embattled front,
And thrills each patriot's heart alike,
And nerves us for the conflict's brunt,
And that dear cause for which we strike.
And then I feel how it were best
A voice should from Kentucky come, Where our Great Commoner doth rest Sweetly, within his Ashland home. And so I know his tongue hath spoken, And swift the brave Kentuckians fly To heal the bonds by treason broken, And crown the right with victory.
O loyal bard! when others quailed
Before Rebellion's bloody hand,
Thy deep devotion never failed
Thine own betrayed and bleeding land; While thick and fast thy wondrous pen Launched forth its bolts and fierce satiresThe terror of the treacherous men
Who lit Disunion's hellish fires.
O faithful bard! how future years
Shall glory in thy noble fame!
How grateful Freedom, through her tears,
Shall bless thy high and lustrous name!
While 'mong her heroes, then as now,
No prouder wreath shall e'er entwine
The statesman's head or warrior's brow,
Than shall for ever circle thine.
"TAXES UPON EVERY THING."
SOME years ago, in '75,
When our forefathers were alive,
Old English George sat on his throne,
And called this country all his own,
Giving our sires, both South and North
A government the best on earth,
And keeping us, as we were, free
From all except a tax on tea;
Except-and that made all the vapor—
A stamp on every piece of paper.
But this one stamp-so ignorant are
The country farmers-lit up war,
And lost us what's of greatest worth—
A government the best on earth.
But thank the Lord, now seventy years
Have passed, and shown how weak their fears;
For we are free as wind or air,
Yet see on what we taxes bear.
Bone, brass, bridges, bristles, skin,
Candles, clothing, copper, tin,
Diamonds, donkeys, distillation,
Express-cars and meals at station,
Flax and furs and ferry-boats,
Glass and gold and skins of goats,
Hemp and hogskin, horseskin, hose,
Incomes, India-rubber shoes,
Jute and juggling pay the tax,
Kid skins too, and cobbler's wax,
Leather, lead, and legacies,
Marine engines on the seas,
Tallow-chandlers and theatres,
And the prestidigitateurs,
Railroads, horse and steam, as well,
Ships and sheepskins, rope and sail,
Tin and trumpery silvered over,
Union shrieker's rubber cover,
Varnish, plate, and knife and fork,
Willow wood and worsted work,
Eccentrics t' engrave our stamps on,
And loyal yachts to sail upon,
Such class A is-would you wist
How much they bear, go through the list.
Niggers and all, we still are free,
And pay our duties willingly.
Apothecaries, auctioneers,
Bankers, brewers of small beers,
Circus-riders, coal-cart fillers,
Dentists, doctors, and distillers,
Eating-house men, caulkers, keelers,
Hotel-keepers and horse-dealers,
Jugglers and insurance agents,
Lottery men and faro play-gents,
Manufacturers and stokers,
Patent agents and pawnbrokers,
Rectifiers, retail dealers,
Steamers, boatmen, dusty millers,
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