Though Liberty shall soon, indignant, raise Red on the hills his beacon's comet blaze; Bid from on high his lonely cannon sound, And on ten thousand hearths his shout rebound; His larum-bell from village-tower to tower Swing on the astounded ear its dull undying roar; Yet, yet rejoice, though Pride's perverted ire Rouze Hell's own aid, and wrap thy hills on fire! Lo! from the innocuous flames, a lovely birth, With its own Virtues springs another earth: Nature, as in her prime, her virgin reign Begins, and Love and Truth compose her train; While, with a pulseless hand, and stedfast gaze, Unbreathing Justice her still beam surveys. Oh give, great God, to Freedom's waves to ride Sublime o'er Conquest, Avarice, and Pride, To sweep where Pleasure decks her guilty bowers And dark Oppression builds her thick-ribbed towers! -Give them, beneath their breast while gladness springs, To brood the nations o'er with Nile-like wings; Who cries, presumptuous, "here their tides shall stay," Swept in their anger from the affrighted shore, With all his creatures sink-to rise no more! To night, my friend, within this humble cot Be the dead load of mortal ills forgot! Renewing, when the rosy summits glow At morn, our various journey, sad and slow. 5 THE FEMALE VAGRANT. My Father was a good and pious man, 2 Can I forget what charm did once adorn My garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme, The swans, that, when I sought the water-side, From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride? 3 The staff I yet remember which upbore Where the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; 4 The suns of twenty summers danced along, We toiled, and struggled―hoping for a day He from his old hereditary nook Must part, the summons came, our final leave we took. It was indeed a miserable hour When from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed, ours! There was a youth whom I had loved so long, We seemed still more and more to prize each other; And I in truth did love him like a brother, For never could I hope to meet with such another. n Two years were passed since to a distant town He had repaired to ply the artist's trade. What tears of bitter grief till then unknown! |