Morning herald. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1837-1840, 1840-10-21

lFrom Lady Byron, and Poems Of aiDonad Clarke
Wreath for the Wings.


A light Is in the East,
As tho the sun had its boiler burst.
Come TO freedoms feast;
Bless the Almighty lrst-- U.
Bid his Affairs blaze
With beams that shall rival Days.
Roll out your loudest guns;
Load " iih double wad
Freedoms fearless sons
kneel and worship God.
Fire .-whlle your prayers are pealing-
Fire while the States are kneelina-
Fire while your fate is sealing,
Not with blOod-but tears;
Tears that will ripen Labor's rose,
And give to future years
Security and repose.
Those joyous tears are seen
On many sunburnt cheek
For the selfish and the mean,
Who dirty honors seek,
Are driven from their post,
While Harrison, with host
or honest hearts, and fearless heads,
iniront of Freedom, treais.
The world was made to work.
With head or heart, or hand
Shame on those who shirk-
Who for their Native l. and
Wouldn't join the joyous toll
That strips Oppression of her spoil.
Bring forth the biggest gun;
Let il face the rising Sun.
Fire lille the States shouting,
And Freedoms murdeTers routing.
Let our women, too,
Wave their petticoa.s on high:
Honest Tips true bluc
Every woman1s eye
Should flash in with the cannons blaze
welcome, these Election days
Aye-lct our women Join
In the jubilee of the States;
i They needn't weep, and pine.
ndlangush for their mates
The fellows can afford to wed
Now Loky Foky's dead.
Loky Foxy is bungd up,
most tee-total route
Raise alolt the wedding cup
And, mid your bushes, shout
For Gods sake, Ladies'. don't retreat;
Join in ysur Brothers'joy.
Matty's bung'd at last, and beat,
And many a little bouncing boy,
Within the next nine months, will come
Mule it'll petticoats the drum
Beat the evellie of Wedlocks morn
The Nations dreary days are gone;
Matty's down, AID Marriage will
The veins of many maiden thrill
Let Penn little while hold still
Let 'en only wait until
Until old Loky Foky's laid
To bed, with the Sections spade.
Then when Wall str eet sings,
Next month, her golden hymns
And the Town, like Bedlam, rings,
Andthe Country's glad eye swims
Wthtrsnsport at the thought
That things went as they ought.
Let the ladies join the trumpet tune,
BY the DlaLe other wedding moon
Hurrah for Harrison-the petticost for ever
VIII you give 1t up-never.
The States have struggled, and are free;
Beat the drum, and bend the knee;
Fire the cannon-call the Troops;
Let 'em come in conquering groups;
Kiss the women-warm your hearts,
While the tear oftriumph starts.
Hug your babies one and all
On the name Of Wedlock call;
Wedlock, who's been sick so long,
That abe scarce has sung song
For a dozen years, or more,
Since the Foxes were heard to roar
Their peal of conquest from the Hall,
Darkened by Freedoms funeral pail.
The States have struggled and are free;
Beat the drum and bend the knee.
From Maine to wild Missouri's bound,
There bursts stern electric sound
Strong, loud, and Deep as the Northern breeze
Battles DER the wintry seas
When the waves are heaying high,
And thunder cracks the crashing sky,
From New Hampshire's highest peaks
--.E wacre iha railnisht tom pest shrisks;
Where the grand, Green Mountain bows
Love the whirlwind's glorious noise;
Where the girls, with naked feet,
Tramp Decembers frozen sleet
And the day their babes are born
Often to the wasb-tub gone
The sound IS coming louder yet,
As tho thousand Towns had met
To mingle in one wide hurrah
For all, of life, worth fighting for.
Oh. in Freedoms blessed stife
Death is dearer far than life.
We swear, by the undying God,
To hold the path our Fathers trod
Paved with the bones Of many man,
Whose veins with spatter'd lightning ran;
Whose blood was lavish'd fast and free,
shed Brother, dear, for you and me.
Aye-by our Mothers whitening hair
Our Fathers grave,-we, kneelng, swear
To hold the hsllowed path they held,
When Battles bloodhounds round them yclrd
And the thunderstorm ofhavock hurld
Mercy, from mourning World.
America was not made for slaves
Well heaye the land with headlong graves
Our unsuriod bones the rain shall bleach
On mountain top, and midnight beach
Our wives and little ones shall roam
The winter hills, without a home,
Ere Wen eat the brea that's earned
BY deeds, our unfinching Fathers spurncd
Give me. God, lions cave,
Thatchcd with weeds the Tempest sends,
Let II be my hut and grave,
Rather than call the wreches-frieads
Who, for little filthy gold,
Their blood-bought Country-sold.
Oct 18th, 1870.
General Sessions.