San Marcos free press. [volume] (San Marcos, Tex.) 1877-1892, 1881-01-13
A Fine Patriotic Poem.

below We make anOther Selecuon IRON
1.-THE Poets Of Connecticut" noticed in oul
last. The poem in question has long beer
familiar and dear to us, though strange I.
say We believe we have never before copiet
it during our long editorial career. Fol
high, fervid thoughts tina
breathe in words that burn"--we think it.hai
scarcely a parallel in the whole range oi
English and American literature. II SEEM
to us it cannot be read by any one of ordin
ary sensibility without deep emotion. The
author was Hugh Peters, a young lawyer. HI
located at Cincinnati in 1880, and the fol
lowing year met his death by drowning in
the Ohio river, at the untimely age of only
23 years. On our fourth page we also copy
a sportive poem from his pen, which pre-
sents quite contrast to that which follow,
here.-ED FREE Press.
MY NATIVE LAND.
'Nr NATIVE LAND, aooD .nIaHr.' BYaos.
The boat swings from the pebbled shore,
And proudly drives her PROV;
The crested waves waves roll up before,
Yon dark gray land see no more,
How sweet thou seemest now!
Thou dark gray land, my native land,
Thou land Of rock and pine,
rm speeding from thy golden sand
Bat can wave farewell hand
To such shore as thine 7
I've gazed upon the golden cloud
Which shades thine emerald sod
Thy hills, which freedoms share hath
ploughed,
Which nurse race that have not bowed
Their knee to aught but GoD;
Thy mountain floods which proudly fling
Their waters to the fall,
Thy birds that cut with rushing wing
The sky that greets thy coming spring,
And thought thy glories small.
But now, yeve shrunk to yon blue line
Between the sky and sea,
] feel, sweet home that thon art mine,
l feel my bosom cling to thine,
That 1 am part of thee.
I see thee blended with the wave,
As children see the earth
Close up sainted mothers grave;
They weep for her they cannot save,
And feel her holy worth.
Thou mountain land. thou land Of rock,
I'm proud to call thee free;
Thy sons are of the pilgrim stock,
And nerved like those who stood the shock
eat old Thermopyla.
The laurel wreaths their fathers won,
The children wear them still
Proud deeds those iron men have done |;
They fought and won at Bennington,
And bled at Bunker Hill.
There's grandeur in the lightning stroke
That rives thy mountain ash
There's glory in thy giant oak,
And rainbow beauty in the smoke
Where crystal waters dash
Theirs music in thy winter blast
That sweeps the hollow glen
Less sturdy sons would stand aghast
From piercing winds like those thou hast
10 nurse thine iron men.
And thou hast gems-aye, living pearls.
And flowers of Eden hue
Thy loveliest are thy bright-eyed girls,
OF fairy forms and eitin curls,
And smiles like Hesmon's dew;
They've hearts like those their born to
Too proud to nurse slave wed,
They'd scorn to share monarch's bed,
And sooner lay their angel head
Deep in their humble grave.
And have left thee, home, alone,
A pilgrim from thy shore
The wind goes by with hollow moan,
hear it sigh IL warning tone,
''You see your home no more"
I'm cast upon the worlds wide seq,
Torn like an on ocean-weed
rm cast away, fur, far, from thee
l feel a thing cannot be,
A bruised and broken reed.
Farewell, my native land, farewell!
That wave has hid thee now
My heart is bowed as with spell
This rending pang would I could tell
What ails my throbbing brow
One look upon that fading streak
Which bounds yon eastern SKY;
One tear to cool my burning cheek
And then word cannot speak
"My native land, Good bye !"