At the fire-flash of thine eye,
Giant Bigotry shall fly;
At thy voice, Oppression die.
Lusitania, from the dust
Shake thy locks; thy cause is just;
Strike for freedom, strike and trust.
France, I hurry from thy shore;
Thou art not the France of yore;
Thou art new-born France no more.
Sweep by Holland like the blast;
One quick glance at Denmark cast,
Sweden, Russia ;-all is past.
Elbe nor Weser tempt my stay ;
Germany, beware the day
When thy schoolmen bear the sway.
Now to thee, to thee I fly,
Fairest isle beneath the sky
To my heart as in mine eye!
I have seen them one by one,
Every shore beneath the sun,
And my voyage now is done.
While I bid them all be blest,
Britain, thou'rt my home-my rest:
-My own land, I love thee best.
THY neighbour? It is he whom thou
Hast power to aid and bless ;
Whose aching heart and burning brow
Thy soothing hand may press.
Thy neighbour? "Tis the fainting poor
Whose eye with want is dim;
Whom hunger sends from door to door ;-
Go thou, and succour him.
Thy neighbour? 'Tis that weary man
Whose years are at their brim,
Bent low with sickness, care, and pain ;-
Go thou, and succour him.
Thy neighbour? "Tis the heart bereft
Of every earthly gem;
Widow and orphan helpless left ;-
Go thou, and shelter them.
Thy neighbour? Yonder toiling slave,
Fetter'd in thought and limb;
Whose hopes are all beyond the grave ;—
Go thou, and ransom him.
Whene'er thou meet'st a human form
Less favour'd than thine own,
Remember 'tis thy neighbour worm,
Thy brother or thy son.
Oh, pass not, pass not heedless by;
Perhaps thou canst redeem
The breaking heart from misery ;-
Go share thy lot with him.
ENGLAND'S OAK.
LET India boast its spicy trees,
Whose fruit and gorgeous bloom
Give to each faint and languid breeze
Its rich and rare perfume.
Let Portugal and haughty Spain
Display their orange-groves;
And France exult her vines to train
Around her trim alcoves.
Old England has a tree as strong,
As stately as them all,
As worthy of a minstrel's song
In cottage and in hall.
'Tis not the yew-tree, though it lends
Its greenness to the grave;
Nor willow, though it fondly bends
Its branches o'er the wave;
Nor birch, although its slender tress
Be beautifully fair,
As graceful in its loveliness
As maiden's flowing hair.
'Tis not the poplar, though its height
May from afar be seen;
Nor beech, although its boughs be dight
With leaves of glossy green.
All these are fair, but they may fling
Their shade unseen by me;
My favorite, and the forest-king,
The British Oak shall be !
Its stem, though rough, is stout and sound,
Its giant branches throw
Their arms in shady blessings round
O'er man and beast below;
Its leaf, though late in spring it shares
The zephyr's gentle sigh,
As late and long in autumn wears
A deeper, richer die.
Type of an honest English heart,
It opes not at a breath,
But having open'd, plays its part
Until it sinks in death.
Its acorns, graceful to the sight,
Are toys to childhood dear;
Its mistletoe with berries white,
Adds mirth to Christmas cheer.
And when we reach life's closing stage,
Worn out with care or ill,
For childhood, youth, or hoary age,
Its arms are open still.
But prouder yet its glories shine,
When in a nobler form,
It floats upon the heaving brine,
And braves the bursting storm;
Or when, to aid the work of love,
To some benighted clime
It bears glad tidings from above,
Of gospel-truths sublime:
Oh! then triumphant in its might,
O'er waters dim and dark,
It seems, in Heaven's approving sight,
A second glorious Ark.
On earth the forest's honour'd king,
Man's castle on the sea;
Who will another tree may sing—
Old England's Oak for me!
THE sabbath's dawn, how still it is,
The wearied cattle rest,
And man, with all his thousand cares,
With heaven-born peace is blest.
No sound of toil breaks on the ear,
The six days' turmoil o'er,
The seventh comes to cheer our hearts,
And bid us grieve no more.
Yes! all is hush'd, and nature's God
Proclaims, "This is the day,
A sabbath set apart for man
To love and praise and pray."
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