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And stars to set—but all,
We know when moons shall wane,
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee!
Is it when spring's first gale
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ?-
Thou art where billows foam,
Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest
Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And stars to set-but all-
THE LOST PLEIAD.
“Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."-BYRON.
And is there glory from the heavens departed ?
Still hold their place on high,
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye!
Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
Though thou art exiled thence-
Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense.
They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning-
And from the silvery sea
Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place,
Swept by the wind away?
And was there power to smite them with decay ?
Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? Bow'd be our hearts to think on what we are,
When from its height afar
A world sinks thus—and yon majestic heaven
Shines not the less for that one vanish'd star !
THE CLIFFS OF DOVER.
“The inviolate Island of the sage and free."-BYRON.
Rocks of my country! let the cloud
Your crested heights array,
My spirit greets you as ye stand,
Breasting the billow's foam :
The sever'd land of home!
I have left rich blue skies behind,
Lighting up classic shrines,
And sunshine on the vines.
The breathings of the myrtle flowers
Have floated o'er my way;
Hath soothed me with its lay.
The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain,
The purple heavens of Rome
I bless thee, land of home !
For thine the Sabbath peace, my land !
And thine the guarded hearth; And thine the dead--the noble band,
That make thee holy earth.
Their voices meet me in thy breeze,
Their steps are on thy plains; Their names, by old majestic trees,
Are whisper'd round thy fanes.
Their blood hath mingled with the tide
Of thine exulting sea :
To live and die for thee !
THE GRAVES OF MARTYRS.
The kings of old have shrine and tomb
The thousands that, uncheer'd by praise,
Where sleep they, Earth? By no proud stone
Yet haply all around lie strew'd
may be that each day we tread
Oh, that the many-rustling leaves,
Would not our inmost hearts be stillid,
Yet what if no light footstep there