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And I have hail'd the gray morn high,
On the blue mountain's misty brow,
And tried to tune my little reed

To hymns of harmony.

But never could I tune my reed, At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet, the ocean shore

As when


I hail'd thy star-beam mild.

The day-spring brings not joy to me,
The moon it whispers not of peace;

But, oh! when darkness robes the heavens,
My woes are mix'd with joy.

And then I talk, and often think

Aerial voices answer me;

And, oh! I am not then alone

A solitary man.

And when the blustering winter winds
Howl in the woods that clothe my cave,

I lay me on my lonely mat,

And pleasant are my dreams.

And Fancy gives me back my wife;
And Fancy gives me back my child;
She gives me back my little home,
And all its placid joys.


Then hateful is the morning hour
That calls me from the dream of bliss,
To find myself still lone, and hear

The same dull sounds again.

The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea,
The whispering of the boding trees,

The brook's eternal flow, and oft

The condor's hollow scream.



THE stars are forth, the moon above the tops
Of the snow-shining mountains.-Beautiful!
I linger yet with nature, for the sight
Hath been to me a more familiar face
Than that of man; and in her starry shade
Of dim and solitary loveliness

I learn'd the language of another world.
I do remember me, that in my youth,
When I was wandering,-upon such a night
I stood within the Coliseum's wall,
'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome;
The trees which grew along the broken arches
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars
Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar


The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber; and
More near from out the Cæsars' palace came
The owl's long ery, and, interruptedly
Of distant sentinels the fitful song
Begun and died upon the gentle wind.
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach
Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood
Within a bowshot.

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And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon
All this, and cast a wide and tender light,
Which soften'd down the hoar austerity
Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up,
As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries;
Leaving that beautiful which still was so,
And making that which was not, till the place
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er
With silent worship of the great of old!

The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule
Our spirits from their urns.




OH, Liberty! thou goddess heavenly bright,
Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight!
Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign,
And smiling Plenty leads thy wanton train;
Eased of her load, subjection grows more light,
And Poverty looks cheerful in thy sight;
Thou mak'st the gloomy face of Nature gay,
Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day;
Thee, goddess, thee Britannia's isle adores;
How has she oft exhausted all her stores,
How oft in fields of death thy presence sought,
Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought.
On foreign mountains may the sun refine
The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine;
With citron groves adorn a distant soil,
And the fat olive swell with floods of oil;
We envy not the warmer clime that lies
In ten degrees of more indulgent skies;
Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine,
Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine ;

'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle,

And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains




MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire !
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,

Was nursed in whirling storms,

And cradled in the winds.

Thee, when young Spring first question'd Winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw

To mark the victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene thou open'st to the nipping gale,
Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill Adversity: in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,

Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows,
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear

Serene the ills of life.


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