The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;
In every clime, the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride;
While, in his softened looks, benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend.
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life.
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye
An angel guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?
Art thou a man ?—a patriot ?-look around!
Oh! thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home.
THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS.
SING them upon the sunny hills,
When days are long and bright,
And the blue gleam of shining rills
Is loveliest to thy sight;
Sing them along the misty moor,
Where ancient hunters roved,
And swell them through the torrent's roar,-
The songs our fathers loved.
The songs their souls rejoiced to hear
When harps were in the hall,
And each proud note made lance and spear
Thrill on the bannered wall;
The songs that through our valley green,
Sent on from age to age,
Like his own river's voice, have been
The peasant's heritage.
The reaper sings them when the vale
Is filled with plumy sheaves;
The woodman, by the starlight pale
Cheered homeward through the leaves;
And unto them the glancing oars
A joyous measure keep,
Where the dark rocks that crest our shores Dash back the foaming deep.
So let it be, a light they shed
O'er each old fount and grove;
A memory of the gentle dead,
A spell of lingering love;
Murmuring the names of mighty men,
They bid our streams roll on,
And link high thoughts to every glen
Where valiant deeds were done.
Teach them your children round the hearth,
When evening fires burn clear,
And in the fields of harvest mirth,
And on the hills of deer.
So shall each long-forgotten word,
When far those loved ones roam,
Call back the hearts that once it stirred,
To childhood's holy home.
The heathery heights in vision rise
Where like the stag they roved,-
Sing to your sons those melodies,
The songs your fathers loved.
OUR NATIVE SONG.
OUR native song,-our native song,
Oh, where is he who loves it not?
The spell it holds is deep and strong,
Where'er we go, whate'er our lot.
Let other music greet our ear
With thrilling fire or dulcet tone,
We speak to praise, we pause to hear,
But yet-oh, yet-'tis not our own.
The anthem chant, the ballad wild,
The notes that we remember long,The theme we sing with lisping tongue,"Tis this we love, our native song.
The one who bears the felon's brand,
With moody brow and darkened name;
Thrust meanly from his father-land
To languish out a life of shame;
Oh, let him hear some simple strain,—
Some lay his mother taught her boy,-
He'll feel the charm, and dream again
Of home, of innocence, and joy.
The sigh will burst, the drops will start,
And all of virtue, buried long,—
The best, the purest in his heart,—
Is wakened by his native song.
Self-exiled from our place of birth
To climes more fragrant, bright, and gay, The memory of our own fair earth
May chance awhile to fade away;
But should some minstrel echo fall,
Of chords that breathe Old England's fame,
Our souls will burn, our spirits yearn,
True to the land we love and claim.
The high, the low,-in weal or woe,
Be sure there's something coldly wrong
About the heart that does not glow
To hear its own, its native song.
ADDRESS TO LIBERTY.
Он, could I worship aught beneath the skies
That earth hath seen, or fancy could devise,
Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand,
Built by no mercenary, vulgar hand,
With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair
As ever dressed a bank, or scented summer air.
Duly, as ever on the mountain's height
The peep of morning shed a dawning light;
Again, when evening in her sober vest
Drew the gray curtain of the fading west;
My soul should yield thee willing thanks and praise
For the chief blessings of my fairest days:
But that were sacrilege: praise is not thine,
But His, who gave thee, and preserves thee mine,
Else I would say,-and, as I spake, bid fly
A captive bird into the boundless sky,—
This rising realm adores thee: thou art come
From Sparta hither, and art here at home;
We feel thy force still active; at this hour
Enjoy immunity from priestly power;
While conscience, happier than in ancient years,
Owns no superior but the God she fears.
Propitious Spirit! yet expunge a wrong
Thy rights have suffered, and our land, too long;
Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts, that share
The fears and hopes of a commercial care:
Prisons expect the wicked, and were built
To bind the lawless, and to punish guilt;
But shipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and flood
Are mighty mischiefs, not to be withstood:
And honest merit stands on slippery ground
Where covert guile and artifice abound.
Let just restraint, for public peace designed,
Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind,—
The foe of virtue has no claim to thee,—
But let insolvent innocence go
THE VISION OF LIBERTY.
THE evening heavens were calm and bright;
No dimness rested on the glittering light,
That sparkled from that wilderness of worlds on high;
Those distant suns burned on with quiet ray;
The placid planets held their modest way;
And silence reigned profound o'er earth, and sea, and sky.
Oh! what an hour for lofty thought!
My spirit burned within; I caught
A holy inspiration from the hour.
Around me, man and nature slept;
Alone my solemn watch I kept,
Till morning dawned, and sleep resumed her power.
A vision passed upon my soul.
I still was gazing up to heaven,
As in the early hours of even;
I still beheld the planets roll,
And all those countless sons of light
Flame from the broad blue arch, and guide the moonless night.
When, lo! upon the plain,
Just where it skirts the swelling main.
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