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And then, a deluge of wrath it came,

And the nations shook with dread;
And it swept the earth till its fields were flame,

And piled with the mingled dead!
Kings were rolled in the wasteful flood

With the low and crouching slave,
And together lay, in a shroud of blood,

The coward and the brave.
And where was then thy fearless flight?

O'er the dark, mysterious sea,
To the lands that caught the setting light,

The cradle of liberty.
There, on the silent and lonely shore,

For ages I watched alone;
And the world, in its darkness, asked no more

Where the glorious bird had flown.
But then came a bold and hardy few,

And they breasted the unknown wave; I caught afar the wandering crew,

And I knew they were high and brave. I wheeled around the welcome bark

As it sought the desolate shore,
And up to heaven, like a joyous lark,

My quivering pinions bore.
And now that bold and hardy few

Are a nation wide and strong,
And danger and doubt I have led them through,

And they worship me in song;
And over their bright and glancing arms

On field and lake and sea,
With an eye that fires and a spell that charms,
I guide them to victory!

- Percival.


How gaily is at first begun

Our life's uncertain race!
Whilst yet that sprightly morning sun,
With which we just set out to run,

Enlightens all the place.



How smiling the world's prospect lies,

How tempting to go through ! Not Canaan to the prophet's eyes, From Pisgah, with a sweet surprise,

Did more inviting show. How soft the first ideas prove

Which wander through our minds ! How full the joys, how free the love, Which does that early season move,

As flowers the western winds !

Our sighs are then but vernal air,

But April drops our tears,
Which, swiftly passing, all grows fair,
Whilst beauty compensates our care,

And youth each vapour clears.

But, oh! too soon, alas ! we climb,

Scarcely feeling we ascend
The gently rising hill of Time,
From whence with grief we see that prime,

And all its sweetness end.

The die now cast, our station known,

Fond expectation past ;
The thorns which former days had sown,
To crops of late repentance grown,

Through which we toil at last.

Whilst every care's a driving harm

That helps to bear us down,
Which faded smiles no more can charm;
But every tear's a winter storm,
And every look 's a frown.

-Anne, Countess of Winchelsea.

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“Now, if I fall, will it be my lot
To be cast in some low and lonely spot,
To melt and to sink unseen or forgot ?

And then will my course be ended ?”
'T was thus a feathery Snow-Flake said,
As down through the measureless space it strayed,
Or as half by dalliance, half afraid,

It seemed'in mid-air suspended.
“Oh, no," said the Earth, “thou shalt not lie,

Neglected and lone, on my lap to die,
Thou pure and delicate child of the sky,

For thou wilt be safe in my keeping.
But then I must give thee a lovelier form ;
Thou 'lt not be a part of the wintry storm,
But revive when the sunbeams are yellow and warm,

And the flowers from my bosom are peeping.
And then thou shalt have thy choice to be
Restored in the lily that decks the lea,
In the jessamine bloom, the anemone,

Or aught of thy spotless whiteness ;
To melt, and be cast in a glittering bead,
With the pearls that the night scatters over the mead,
In the cup where the bee and the firefly feed,

Regaining thy dazzling brightness ;



" To wake, and be raised from thy transient sleep,

When Viola's mild blue eye shall weep,
In a tremulous tear, or a diamond leap

In a drop from the unlocked fountain;
Or, leaving the valley, the meadow, and heath,
The streamlet, the flowers, and all beneath,
To go and be wove in the silvery wreath

Encircling the brow of the mountain.

“Or, wouldst thou return to a home in the skies,

To shine in the Iris I'll let thee arise,
And appear in the many and glorious dyes

A pencil of sunbeams is blending.
But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth,
I'll give thee a new and vernal birth,
When thou shalt recover thy primal worth,

And never regret descending."

“Then I will drop," said the trusting Flake;
“ But bear it in mind that the choice I make
Is not in the flowers nor the dew to awake,

Nor the mist that shall pass with the morning;
For, things of thyself, they expire with thee;
But those that are lent from on high, like me,
They rise, and will live, from thy dust set free,

To the regions above returning.

“And if true to thy word and just thou art,

Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart,
Unsullied by thee thou wilt let me depart,

And return to my native heaven;
For I would be placed in the beautiful bow,
From time to time in thy sight to glow,
So thou mayst remember the Flake of Snow
By the promise that God hath given.”

-Hannah F. Gould.

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THE spearmen heard the bugle sound,

And cheerly smiled the morn,
And many a brach and many a hound
Obeyed Llewellyn's horn.

And still he blew a louder blast

And gave a lustier cheer:
“Come, Gelert, come, wert never last

Llewellyn's horn to hear.”
Oh! where doth faithful Gelert roam,

The flower of all his race?
So true, so brave-a lamb at home.
A lion in the chase.

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