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Tell Zion's mournful daughter
O'er kindred bones she'll tread, And Hinnom's vale of slaughter
Shall hide but half her dead.”
But soon shall other pictured scenes
In brighter vision rise,
On all her mourner's eyes ;
The messengers of peace ;-
TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER.
Wild bramble of the brake !
I love it for his sake.
O’er all the fragrant bowers,
Thy satin-threaded Aowers;
That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful,
Thy tender blossoms are !
How rich thy branchy stem !
And thou sing’st hymns to them!
While silent flowers are falling slow,
And, 'mid the general hush,
Lone whispering through the bush !
The hawthorn flower is dead;
Hath laid her weary head !
In all their beauteous power,
And boyhood's blossoming hour,
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,
STEAM IN THE DESERT.
“God made all nations of one blood,” And bado the nation-wedding flood
Bear good for good to men : Lo, interchange is happiness ! The mindless are the riverless!
The shipless have no pen!
What deod sublime by them is wrought?
What soul-ennobled page ?
Is theirs from age to age !
Steam !—if the nations grow not old
Or hear him in the wind-
One nation of mankind ?
If rivers are but seeking rest,
To plant on earth the rose-
In action find repose !
Yes, let the wilderness rejoice,
Of millions long estranged:
THE MARINER'S SONG.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And bends the gallant mast;
While, like the eagle free,
Old England on the lee.
“O for a soft and gentle wind,"
I heard a fair one cry;
And white waves heaving high ;
The good ship tight and free,
And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
The wind is piping loud;
The lightning flashes free,
LOWLINESS OF MIND.
0! I would walk A weary journey, to the farthest verge Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand, Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art, Preserves a lowly mind; and to his God, Feeling the sense of his own littleness, Is as a child in meek simplicity! What is the pomp of learning? the parade Of letters and of tongues? even as the mists Of the gray mom before the rising sun, That pass away and perish. Earthly things
Are but the transient pageants of an hour;
And canst thou, mother, for a moment think,
That we, thy children, when old age shall shed
Its blanching honours on thy weary head, Could from our best of duties ever shrink? Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink
Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day,
To pine in solitude thy life away, Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. Banish the thought !—Where'er our steps may roam,
O’er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,
Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee, And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;
While duty bids us all thy grief assuage,
INSTABILITY OF HUMAN GLORY.
O how weak