The Woodville Republican. [volume] (Woodville, Miss.) 1847-1853, 1850-10-08
From the Southern Press.
IRON CHIN ES.
BY A. j. REquIER.

There is block OF iron hung
In the dim towers o Time,
Which. when lis brazen bells are rung,
Peals porteutiuus chime:
Alaru n o, the III InStar-blrtl!
Ger empires wrecked and riven.
II swin4s, to ring uut wong rom earth,
And ring down right rom Heaven!
In the sad moonlclt o. the past
Crepuscular it stands.
And U'ef the waste Of thin outcaS:
Stretches its gloomy halls:
Athwart its ace are map-Iike blent:
Traces o blood and tears,
And its colossal form seems bent,
Under cloud Of years,
The histories Of tramplad man
Are wrought about its base,
Which frowninoly declareth when
They fell into disgrace;
Accused of late-their craven forms
Withered and whitening lie,
Dismantled like the drifts OF storms,
And shocking to the eye.
Wrptches. who hugced the rusted chain,
Who covered. cringe1 an! bowed,
Nor dared to speak in manlier strain
And tell their grie aloud:
Slaves who Were born to breathe and die,
Hiding the stripes they bore,
And never once, invoked the sky
To damn the prison door.
Slaves of the heart the head, the hands,
Encrusted in the core,
Who blessed the ignominious bands
Aud raptlrous' y wore
Its links that eat the flesh and kill
All nobleness OF soul
With blood that never lelt thrill
In its insensdte hole
For them the horologe hath rung
The saddest OF its chimes;
And round It's hoary frame hath flung
Grim tablets OF their times;
Ger these its neither hand is stretched
In token of their STAINS,
To the young nations yet unmeshed
By stratagenl or chains.
Look to the loftiest shade and see
The circuit it surveys.
A disk Of blood and tears, all me,
But radiant with rays;
Lit with glory not OF morn,
Moon stars-nOr pearl, nor stone
But with the glory OF men born
To hold on to their owa.
The glory of the Roman arm
That struck tyrant down,
When his quick blood beat proudly warm,
Under the purple gown;
The glory of the deathless few
Whose fame survives race.
And of the later Greek who threw
His lie blood on It's face.
OF Timoleen and Bruce-of Tell
OF Washnoton-whose grave
Hath tolled never-ceaSlng knell
To potentate and slave;
Ofthose who dared to love the right
More than they feared the wrong,
And glow-the star-enkindled night
Of chivalry and song
Look to it well, grave Senator'S
Who SIT upon this land,
Lock to the clock of woes and wars
With its prophetic hand;
The ship OF State is good craft,
As staunch as craft can be.
But storm may thunder on its mast
And sink it in the sea
Look to it wel--there is shade
Upon lis troubled face,
And deeper new CLEAN the tints made
BY every fearful trace;
Sad brows are bending on us there,
From the discolored past,
And something darkens the noon air
Which moaneth in the blast.
The ship Of State is good craft
As stauuch as craft can be,
But storm naythunder on its mast
And sink il in the sea
Aud woe TO them who tread its deck
With parricidal hands,
To drive 1t a dismembered wreck
Upon the shoals ana sands.
tnere is sound Of brazen bells
ma a strange, mysterious chime,
"nien, ever and anon, upswells
From the dim towers Of Time;
sound pOrtentous it may be
vi some impending woe
'oc help the good ship on the sea
mo the North-eaSter's blow