Puslapio vaizdai
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I said to Death's uplifted dart,
Aim sure, O why delay ?
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart,
A weak reluctant prey.
For still the spirit, firm and free,
Triumphant in the last dismay,
Wrapped in its own eternity,

Shall, smiling, pass away

TO A WAVE.

BY J. O. ROCKWELL.

LIST! thou child of wind and sea,
Tell me of the far off deep,
Where the tempest's wing is free,
And the waters never sleep.
Thou perchance the storm hath aided,
In its works of stern despair,
Or perchance thy hand hath braided,
In deep caves, the mermaid's hair.

Wave! now on the golden sands,
Silent as thou art, and broken,
Bearest thou not from distant strands

To my heart some pleasant token?
Tales of mountains of the south,

TO A WAVE.

Spangles of the ore of silver, Which with playful singing mouth, Thou hast leaped on high to pilfer?

Mournful Wave! I deemed thy song
Was telling of a floating prison,
Which when tempests swept along,
And the mighty winds were risen,
Foundered in the ocean's grasp,

While the brave and fair were dying.
Wave! didst mark a white hand clasp
In thy folds as thou wert flying?

Hast thou seen the hallowed rock,

Where the pride of kings reposes,
Crowned with many a misty lock,
Wreathed with samphire green and roses?

Or with joyous playful leap

Hast thou been a tribute flinging

Up that bold and jutting steep,

Pearls upon

the south wind stringing?

Faded Wave! a joy to thee
Now thy flight and toil are over!

Oh! may my departure be

Calm as thine, thou ocean rover'
When this soul's last joy or mirth
On the shore of time is driven,
Be its lot like thine on earth,
To be lost away in heaven.

69

70

PHILIP OF MOUNT HOPE.

PHILIP OF MOUNT HOPE.

BY C. SHERRY.

AWAY! away! I will not hear

Of aught but death or vengeance now; By the eternal skies, I swear

My knee shall never learn to bow! Will not hear a word of peace,

Nor grasp in friendly grasp a hand, Linked to the pale-browed stranger race, That work the ruin of our land.

Before their coming, we had ranged
Our forests and our uplands free;
Still let us keep unsold, unchanged,
The heritage of liberty.

As free as roll the chainless streams,
Still let us roam our ancient woods;
As free as break the morning beams,
That light our mountain solitudes.

Touch not the hand they stretch to you; The falsely proffered cup, put by; Will you believe a coward true?

Or taste the poison draught to die? Their friendship is a lurking snare, Their honor but an idle breath;

Their smile-the smile that traitors wear; Their love is hate, their life is death.

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIENE Y

ASTOR, LENOX

TILDEN FOUNDATIONS

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