The Bedford gazette. [volume] (Bedford, Pa.) 1805-current, 1864-04-01


Though he neither sighs nor groans,n
| scratched his head for a rhyme He thought
OF stones, toNes, homes, t0laes, and at last hit on
'6ones, and proceeded to exc out the line with
feet enough to fill up. Had not accident or the
muse suggested that lucky word ''boaes' to him.,
the lines would probaiy have read, s'
Though he neither sighs nor groans
He is nursed by Mrs. Jones.
Rhyme is an exacting mistress and Jones is
handy word. We conceive that in this case he
would have rivalled the melody Of bones
Mr.. Richard Storrs Willis, brother of the
scented bard n. p, inquiries in some rather
poor verses.
standing yet are Sumter's walls
Why, Mortimer, why?
SIumbering yet thy ayenging balls
Why, Mortimer, Why? #
Charleston left to scof at ease,
Richmond Wanting rs it please,
Iraitor-taunts on every breeze
why, Mortimer, why"
To which we naturally reply,
because you poets won't turn out
But shy, Richard shy,
You're inclined to face about
And to fly, Richard, fly,
You and Tilton and the rest
Pm afraid, Dick, that your vest
Hides a chicken heart at best
Fie Richard, fe
We venture, in this place, to intrude an hum.
bic lyric of our own, expressive, as we con-
eelve, ot the style OF patriotism in vogue among
our New England brethren, but which, proba-
bly, from feeling af delicacy for which that
people Is remarkable, has found no interpreter
among all the bards Of the book. We have
called our feeble attempt s'I'he song of the loy-
al AbolHioatsts," and we tremblingly inscribe
the lines to that distinguished domestic patriot
Mr. T. Tilton:
Arml Arm! why sit ye idlei
1t is no time for words
Through all the land the freemen
Are grding on their swords.
The bondmen's chains are clanking--
They tester on his limbs.
While you march forth to strip them of
IN stay here and write hymns.
Strike Strike! let eVerypatriot man
Put on his armor now,
For scars are on the Ethiop's back ea
And a brand is On his brow as assis
Shall men whom God made free as you
Chaie meath their CALLING collars!
Not while my neighbor has a sword,
And 1, three hundred dollars.
Then up and rouse, forth to the field,
Where Freedoms banner flies
lie need not tear to face his God
- W ho for the .pegro dies
And when the Sun OF LlDerty
Dispels foul slaverys yapors,
Why won't zee patI7ots show our scars
And our exemption papers?
in reviewing what we have written we find
most objectionable Observation-Disclosures own
Boker--our native Bard-our dear George has
cast his
''eye Of aeact and toe of fiog'
into this cauldron of melody, and is entitled to
high credit fer the favor of the compound. We
are unable for want of room to give any one of
his pieces entire, and we would not be guilty of
the sacrliege OF serving up mutiIated fragment
OF one OF those rare and polished compositions.
One word, however.-His 'sDtaye for a Soldier
(p. 20l) by some strange accident has crept into
the blue and gold edition Of Tennysons poems,
where 1t will be found on page %. The words
are somewhat differently arranged in tbs Ten
nysonian copy, but the changes are not sufficient
to dlsguise the theft, and we would advise our
bard TO reclaim his property without delay and
to warn the English Laureate against further
pecuations. The absence of an international
copyright law has doubtless emboldened Tennv-
son in making this scandalous plagiarism
We close with simple and truly beautiful
poem from the hand of a young Pennsylvanian
"a modest violet peering up among the Yankee
hollyhocks, suniiowers, onions and cabbage
heads which Frank Moore has gathered into his
political parterre. 1t is called "a plant from
Sardge's, and was written, we believe from the
station OF thst name, in the summer of 1862.
Its author is George Alfred Townsend, the For
eign correspondent Of this journal
alas tor the pleasant peace we knew
In the happy summers of long ago,
When the rivers were bright and the skies were
BY the home of Henrioo Tblue.
We dreamed of wars that were far away.
And read as in fable, of blood that ran.
Where the James and Chickahominy stray
Through the groves of Powhattan.
lis q dream come true, for the afternoons
Blow bugles of war by our fields of grain,
And the sabres sink as the dark dragons
Come galloping up the lane;
The pigeons have flown from the caves and tiles,
The oat-blades have grown to.bades of steel,
And the Huns swarm down the ieafy a:sIes
OF the grand old CommonweaI.
They have torn the Indian fishers nets
Where the gray PamunkY goes toward the sea,
And blood runs red in the rivulets 5
That bubbled and brawled in giee; sa
The corpses are, ,strewn in FAIRY Oak glades,
/ The hoarse guns thunder from DrurY's Ridge,
The fishes that played in the cool deep shades
Are frightened from Bottom Bridge
would that che year were blotted away, ana
And the strawberries green nthe hedgeag
That the scythe might swing in Che tangled bag.
And the squirrels romp in the glen, @
The wanuts sprinkle the clover slopes. s