(SENT FROM ENGLAND TO AMERICA.)
YES! rear thy guardian Hero's form
On thy proud soil, thou Western world!
A watcher through each sign of storm,
O'er Freedom's flag unfurled.
There, as before a shrine to bow,
Bid thy true sons their children lead;
The language of that noble brow
For all things good shall plead.
The spirit reared in patriot fight,
The Virtue born of Home and Hearth,
There calmly throned, a holy light
Shall pour o'er chainless earth.
And let the work of England's hand,
Sent through the blast and surges' roar,
So girt with tranquil glory, stand
For ages on thy shore!
Such through all times the greetings be,
That with the Atlantic billow sweep!
Telling the Mighty and the Free
Of Brothers o'er the Deep.
I COME, I come! ye have call'd me long;
I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves, opening as I pass.
I have breathed on the south, and the chestnut flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers,
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains;
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb!
I have look'd o'er the hills of the stormy north,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth;
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the rein-deer bounds o'er the pastures free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright, where my foot hath been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep blue sky;
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note, by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.
From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain; They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
They are flinging spray o'er the forest-boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves!
Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose lip and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly!
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine,-I may not stay.
Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen!
Away from the chamber and silent hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth!
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And youth is abroad in my green domains.
But yeye are changed since ye met me last!
There is something bright from your features pass'd!
There is that come over your brow and eye,
Which speaks of the world where the flowers must die!
-Ye smile! but your smile hath a dimness yet —
Oh! what have ye look'd on since last we met?
Ye are changed, ye are changed!- and I see not here
All whom I saw in the vanished year;
There were graceful heads with their ringlets bright,
Which toss'd in the breeze with a play of light,
There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay
No faint remembrance of dull decay !
There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head,
As if for a banquet all earth were spread;
There were voices that rung through the sapphire sky,
And had not a sound of mortality!
Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains pass'd? -Ye have look'd on death since ye met me last!
I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now;
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow!
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace,
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race;
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown,
They are gone from amongst you in silence down!
They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair;
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair!
But I know of a land where there falls no blight,
I shall find them there with their eyes of light!
Where Death 'midst the bloom of the morn may dwell:
I tarry no longer- farewell, farewell!
The summer is coming, on soft winds borne ;
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn!
For me, I depart to a brighter shore;
Ye are mark'd by care, ye are mine no more.
I go where the loved who have left you dwell,
And the flowers are not death's - fare ye well, farewell!
THE moon was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain,
When a young mother, with her first-born, thence
Went up to Zion; for the boy was vow'd
Unto the Temple service: - by the hand
She led him, and her silent soul, the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers,
To bring before her God. So pass'd they on,
O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs,
With their cool dimness, cross'd the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paused that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weigh'd their dark fringe down, to sit and watch
The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose,
As at a red flower's heart. And where a fount
Lay like a twilight star 'midst palmy shades,
Making its bank green gems along the wild,
There, too, she linger'd, from the diamond wave
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips,
And softly parting clusters of jet curls
To bathe his brow. At last the Fane was reach'd,
The Earth's One Sanctuary - and rapture hush'd
Her bosom, as before her, through the day,
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd
In light, like floating gold. But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
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