Act 5 — ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL TAYLOR.

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BY R. T. CONRAD.

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Quid me mortuum miserum vocas, qui te sum multo felicior? aut quid acerbi mihi putas contigisse?

Weep not for him! The Thracians wisely gave

Tears to the birth-couch, triumph to the grave.

’Tis misery to be born—to live—to die:

Ev’n he who noblest lives, lives but to sigh.

The right not shields from wrong, nor worth from wo,

Nor glory from reproach; he found it so.

Not strong life’s triumphs, not assured its truth;

Ev’n virtue’s garland hides an aspic tooth.

His glorious morn was past, and past his noon;—

Life’s duty done, death never comes too soon.

Then cast the dull grave’s gloomy trappings by!

The dead was wise, was just—nor feared to die.

Weep not for him. Go, mark his high career;

It knew no shame, no folly and no fear.

More blest than is man’s lot his blameless life,

Though tost by tempests and though torn by strife.

’Neath the primeval forest’s towery pride,

Virtue and Danger watched his couch beside;

This taught him purely, nobly to aspire,

That gave the nerve of steel and soul of fire.

No time his midnight lamps—the stars—could dim;

His matin music was the cataract’s hymn;

His Academe the forest’s high arcade—

(To Numa thus Egeria blessed the shade;)

With kindling soul, the solitude he trod—

The temple of high thoughts—and spake with God:

Thus towered the man—amid the wide and wild—

And Nature claimed him as her noblest child.

Nurtured to peril, lo! the peril came,

To lead him on, from field to field, to fame.

’Twas met as warriors meet the fray they woo:

To shield young Freedom’s wild-wood homes he flew;

And—fire within his fortress, foes without,

The rattling death-shot and th’ infuriate shout—

He, where the fierce flames burst their smoky wreath,

And war’s red game raged madliest, toyed with death;

Till spent the storm, and Victory’s youngest son

Glory’s first fruits, his earliest wreath, had won.

Weep not for him, whose lustrous life has known

No field of fame he has not made his own:

In many a fainting clime, in many a war,

Still bright-browed Victory drew the patriot’s car.

Whether he met the dusk and prowling foe

By oceanic Mississippi’s flow;

Or where the southern swamps, with steamy breath,

Smite the worn warrior with no warrior’s death;

Or where, like surges on the rolling main,

Squadron on squadron sweep the prairie plain;

Dawn—and the field the haughty foe o’erspread,

Sunset—and Rio Grande’s waves run red;

Or where, from rock-ribbed safety, Monterey

Frowns death, and dares him to the unequal fray;

Till crashing walls and slippery streets bespeak

How frail the fortress where the heart is weak;

How vainly numbers menace, rocks defy,

Men sternly knit and firm to do or die;

Or where, on thousands thousands crowding, rush

(Rome knew not such a day) his ranks to crush,

The long day paused on Buena Vista’s height,

Above the cloud with flashing volleys bright;

Till angry Freedom, hovering o’er the fray,

Swooped down, and made a new Thermopylæ;—

In every scene of peril and of pain,

His were the toils, his country’s was the gain.

From field to field, and all were nobly won,

He bore, with eagle flight, her standard on:

New stars rose there—but never star grew dim

While in his patriot grasp. Weep not for him.

The heart is ne’er a castaway; its gift

Falls back, like dew to earth—the soul’s own thrift

Of gentlest thoughts by noblest promptings moved:

He loved his country, and by her was loved.

To him she gave herself, a sacred trust,

And bade him leave his sword to rest and rust;

And, awed but calm, nor timid nor elate,

He turned to tread the sandy stairs of state.

Modest, though firm; decided, cautious, clear;

Without a selfish hope, without a fear;

Reverent of right, no warrior now, he still

Cherished the nation’s chart, the people’s will;

Hated but Faction with her maniac brand,

And loved, with fiery love, his native land.

Rose there a foe dared wrong in her despite,

How eager leaped his soul to do her right!

Her flag his canopy, her tents his home—

The world in arms—why, let the armed world come!

Thus loved he, more than life, and next to Heaven,

The broad, bright land to which that life was given;

And, loving thus and loved, the nation’s pride,

Her hope, her strength, her stay—the patriot died!

Weep not for him—though hurried from the scene:

’Twill be earth’s boast that such a life has been.

Taintless his truth as Heaven; his soul sincere

Sparkled to-day, as mountain brooklets clear.

O’er every thought high honour watchful hung,

As broods the eagle o’er her eyried young.

His courage, in its calmness, silent, deep,

But strong as fate—Niagara in its sleep;

But when, in rage, it burst upon the foe—

Niagara leaping to the gulf below.

His clemency the graceful bow that, thrown

O’er the wild wave, Heaven lights and makes its own.

His was a spirit simple, grand and pure,

Great to conceive, to do and to endure;

Yet the rough warrior was, in heart, a child,

Rich in love’s affluence, merciful and mild.

His sterner traits, majestic and antique,

Rivaled the stoic Roman or the Greek;

Excelling both, he adds the Christian name,

And Christian virtues make it more than fame.

To country, youth, age, love, life—all were given;

In death, she lingered between him and Heaven;

Thus spake the patriot in his latest sigh,

“My duty done—I do not fear to die.”

Weep not for him; but for his country, tost

On Faction’s surges: “think not of the lost,

But what ’tis ours to do.”^[2] The hand that stayed,

The pillar that upheld, in dust are laid;

And Freedom’s tree of life, whose roots entwine

Thy fathers’ bones—will it e’er cover thine?

Root, rind and leaf a traitor tribe o’erspread;

Worms sap its trunk and tempests bow its head.

But the land lives not, dies not, in one man,

Were he the purest lived since life began.

Upon no single anchor rests our fate:

Millions of breasts engird and guard the state.

Yet, o’er each true heart, in the nation’s night,

Will Taylor’s memory rise, a pillared light;

His lofty soul will prop the patriot’s pride,

His virtues animate, his wisdom guide.

Faction, whose felon fury, blind and wild,

Would rend our land, as Circe tore her child,

In sordid cunning or insensate wrath,

Scattering its quivering limbs along her path—

Ev’n Faction, at his name, will cower away,

And, shrieking, shrinking, shield her from the day.

Then up to duty! true, as he was true;

As pure, as calm, as firm to bear and do;

Nerve every patriot power, knit every limb,

And up to duty: but weep not for him!