« AnteriorContinuar »
And then, a deluge of wrath it came,
And the nations shook with dread;
And piled with the mingled dead!
With the low and crouching slave,
The coward and the brave.
O'er the dark, mysterious sea,
The cradle of liberty.
For ages I watched alone;
Where the glorious bird had flown.
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,
My quivering pinions bore.
Are a nation wide and strong,
And they worship me in song;
On field and lake and sea,
Our life's uncertain race!
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,
And youth each vapour clears.
But, oh! too soon, alas ! we climb,
Scarcely feeling we ascend
And all its sweetness end.
The die now cast, our station known,
Fond expectation past ;
Through which we toil at last.
Whilst every care's a driving harm
That helps to bear us down,
-Anne, Countess of Winchelsea.
“Now, if I fall, will it be my lot
And then will my course be ended ?”
It seemed'in mid-air suspended.
Neglected and lone, on my lap to die,
For thou wilt be safe in my keeping.
And the flowers from my bosom are peeping.
Or aught of thy spotless whiteness ;
Regaining thy dazzling brightness ;
" To wake, and be raised from thy transient sleep,
When Viola's mild blue eye shall weep,
In a drop from the unlocked fountain;
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,
A pencil of sunbeams is blending.
And never regret descending."
“Then I will drop," said the trusting Flake;
Nor the mist that shall pass with the morning;
To the regions above returning.
“And if true to thy word and just thou art,
Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart,
And return to my native heaven;
-Hannah F. Gould.
BEDD GELERT; OR, THE GRAVE OF THE
And cheerly smiled the morn,
And still he blew a louder blast
And gave a lustier cheer:
Llewellyn's horn to hear.”
The flower of all his race?