Puslapio vaizdai
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Thou shalt be coals of fire to those that hate

thee,

And warm the shins of all that underrate thee.

Yea, they did wrong thee foully-they who mocked

Thy honest face, and said thou wouldst not

burn;

Of hewing thee to chimney pieces talked

And grew profane-and swore in bitter scorn, That men might to thy inner caves retire, And there, unsinged, abide the day of fire.

Yet is thy greatness nigh. I pause to state,
That I too have seen greatness-even I-
Shook hands with Adams-stared at La Fayette,
When, barehead, in the hot noon of July,
He would not let the umbrella be held o'er him,
For which three cheers burst from the mob

before him.

And I have seen-not many months ago-
An eastern Governor in chapeau bras
And military coat, a glorious show!

Ride forth to visit the reviews, and ah !

How oft he smiled and bowed to Jonathan !

How many hands were shook and votes were

won!

'Twas a great Governor-thou too shalt be Great in thy turn-and wide shall spread thy

fame,

And swiftly; furthest Maine shall hear of thee, And cold New Brunswick gladden at thy

name,

And, faintly through its sleets, the weeping isle That sends the Boston folks their cod shall

smile.

For thou shalt forge vast railways, and shalt heat The hissing rivers into steam, and drive

Huge masses from thy mines, on iron feet,
Walking their steady way, as if alive,
Northward, till everlasting ice besets thee,
And south as far as the grim Spaniard lets thee.

Thou shalt make mighty engines swim the sea, Like its own monsters-boats that for a guinea Will take a man to Havre-and shalt be

The moving soul of many a spinning-jenny, And ply thy shuttles, till a bard can wear As good a suit of broadcloth as the mayor.

Then we will laugh at winter when we hear

The grim old churl about our dwellings rave; Thou, from that "ruler of the inverted year,"

Shalt pluck the knotty sceptre Cowper gave, And pull him from his sledge, and drag him in, And melt the icicles from off his chin.

THE NEW MOON.

WHEN, as the garish day is done,

Heaven burns with the descended sun,

'Tis passing sweet to mark,

Amid that flush of crimson light,

The new moon's modest bow grow bright, As earth and sky grow dark.

Few are the hearts too cold to feel
A thrill of gladness o'er them steal,
When first the wandering eye

Sees faintly in the evening blaze,
That glimmering curve of tender rays
Just planted in the sky.

The sight of that young crescent brings
Thoughts of all fair and youthful things—
The hopes of early years ;

And childhood's purity and grace,
And joys that like a rainbow chase,
The passing shower of tears.

The captive yields him to the dream
Of freedom, when that virgin beam
Comes out upon the air,

And painfully the sick man tries
To fix his dim and burning eyes

On the soft promise there.

Most welcome to the lover's sight,
Glitters that pure, emerging light;

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