Puslapio vaizdai
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Oh! keep the morning of His incarnation,
The burning noontide of His bitter passion,
The night of His descending, and the height
Of His ascension, ever in my sight;
That, imitating Him in what I may,
I never follow an inferior way.



HAIL! old patrician trees, so great and good,
Hail! ye plebeian underwood,

Where the poetic birds rejoice,

And for their quiet nests and plenteous food
Pay with their grateful voice.

Here Nature does a house for me erect-
Nature, the wisest architect,

Who those fond artists doth despise,

That can the fair and living tree neglect,
Yet the dead timber prize.

Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying,
Hear the soft sounds above me flying

With all the wanton boughs dispute,

And the more tuneful birds to both replying,

Nor be myself too mute.



BUT where to find that happiest spot below,
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims the happiest spot his own;
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease.
The naked negro, panting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,—
His first, best country ever is at home.



COME, Anna, come! the morning dawns,
Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies;

Come let us seek the dewy lawns,

And watch the early lark arise;

While Nature, clad in vesture gay,

Hails the loved return of day.


Our flocks that nip the scanty blade
Upon the moor, shall seek the vale;
And then, secure beneath the shade,
We'll listen to the throstle's tale,

And watch the silver clouds above,
As o'er the azure vault they rove.

Come, Anna! come! and bring thy lute,
That with its tones, so softly sweet,
In cadence with my mellow flute,
We may beguile the noontide heat;
While near the mellow bee shall join,
To raise a harmony divine.

And then at eve, when silence reigns,
Except when heard the beetle's hum,
We'll leave the sober-tinted plains,
To these sweet heights again we'll come ;
And thou to thy soft lute shall play
A solemn vesper to departing day.




'Tis night-the heavens are calm and clear,
O'er their blue depths no clouds do lower;
And crescent moon and twinkling star
Come forth to grace the solemn hour.
Hush'd are the birds, and every flower
Sleeps on its stem till morn shall glow;
And scarce the drowsy breeze has power
To stir one leaf on forest bough.

Whence then those strains, which rise and fall
As the soft night-wind floats along?

Do joyous guests in banquet-hall

Yet weave the dance and raise the song
No-fled is Pleasure's glittering throng,
The banquet-hall is dark and lone,
And less to earth than heaven belong
The lofty raptures of that tone.

Is't, then, some solemn festal night,

When holy worshippers prepare With choral strain and sacred rite

To mingle in the house of prayer? No-all is mute and lonely there,

No votary breathes the vow divine, And where the torch is wont to glare,

Nought but the silver moonbeams shine.



Go, wend thy way where dark and grim
Philippi's dungeon-towers arise;
There shalt thou hear the joyous hymn,
Instead of weeping captives' sighs.

Though man with cruel zeal applies

Fetter and scourge, both, both are vain ; Through prison-gloom the spirit flies, Unconscious or of stripes or chain.

Oh! what to them is prison gloom,

The strong man's might, the oppressor's pride, If, in the darkling hour of doom,

Omnipotence be on their side?

"Tis but the tempest to outride,

Then, welcome heaven's eternal calm! 'Tis but a few more pangs to bide,

And then, the victor's crown and palm.



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