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When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still
Watched on the holy towers of Zion hill !

Soul of the just! companion of the dead !
Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled?
Back to its heavenly source thy being goes,
Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose;
Doomed on his airy path awhile to burn,
And doomed, like thee, to travel and return.-
Hark! from the world's exploding centre driven,
With sounds that shook the firmament of heaven,
Careers the fiery giant, fast and far,
On bickering wheels and adamantine car;
From planet whirled to planet more remote,
He visits realms beyond the reach of thought;
But, wheeling homeward, when his course is run,
Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun!
So hath the traveller of earth unfurled
Her trembling wings, emerging from the world;
And, o'er the path, by mortal never trod,
Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God !



Ye Mariners of England !

That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved a thousand years

The battle and the breeze,
Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave!
For the deck it was their field of fame,

And ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,

As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,

Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,

As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor-flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors !

Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.



A Loved bequest—and I may half impart

To those that feel the strong paternal tie, How like a new existence in his heart

That living flower uprose beneath his eye. Dear as she was, from cherub infancy,

From hours when she would round his garden play, To time when as the ripening years went by,

Her lovely mind could culture well repay,
And more engaging grew from pleasing day to day.

I may not paint those thousand infant charms,

(Unconscious fascination, undesigned !) The orison repeated in his arms,

For God to bless her sire and all mankind; The book, the bosom on his knee reclined,

Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind);

All uncompanioned else her years had gone, Till now in Gertrude's eyes their ninth blue summer shone.

And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour,

When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent, An Indian from his bark approach their bower,

Of buskined limb and swarthy lineament;

The red wild flowers on his brow were blent,

And bracelets bound the arm that helped to light A boy, who seemed, as he beside him went,

Of Christian vesture and complexion bright, Led by his dusty guide, like morning brought by night.


All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,

The Sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume

Its immortality!
I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to sweep

Adown the gulf of Time!
I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation's death behold,

As Adam saw her prime!

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,

The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were

Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight—the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some!
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead

To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood

With dauntless words and high,

That shook the sere leaves from the wood

As if a storm passed by, Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis Mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears,

That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth

His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,

The vassals of his will ;-
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day:

For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Healed not a passion or a pang

Entailed on human hearts.

Go-let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall

Life's tragedy again.
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack

Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,

Like grass beneath the scythe.

Even I am weary in yon skies,

To watch thy fading firc;

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