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Give me of wine! death quenches not

Thirst that consumes the soul.

Cheerily laughs thy sun?—its beams

Thou welcomest, yet I
Never beheld these, save when dreams

Of madness floated by.
Aye, where in peace dust should recline,

The worm gnaws on my heart;
Sprinkle the feverish turf with wine,
Pour out the cup-depart!

THE AMERICAN BANNER.

O’ER the thousand hills of fame,
O’er unnumbered hearts of flame,
O’er a nation's deathless name,

Peerless banner! wavest thou.
O'er the subject sea that laves
Shores that never nourished slaves,
Soil that yielded martyr-graves,

Beam the stars of glory now.

Years have fled since bold hearts high
Reared thee, and by earth and sky
Swore that free they'd live, or die

’Neath the symbol of the free: That proud oath, where storm-clouds curled

They redeemed, and thou unfurled,
Venerated by a world,

Wavest, flag of liberty!

Eyes beheld thee on that field,
Where thou gleam’dst a meteor shield,
That are dim this day, or sealed

In the warrior's stirless sleep.
Banner of the sainted dead!
Wave in triumph o'er his bed,
Whom thy folds to victory led,

Immortality to reap.

Standard! float forever thou
From our proudest mountain's brow;
Shine, a heaven-lit beacon now,

Cheering nations-cheering Greece!
Spirit, that hast thither flown,
Crush the Moslem on his throne;
Where the crescent long has shone,

Hover, angel-dove of peace. 1825.

TO WINTER.

WINTER! there are among the race of men,

Strangers to thought who slander thee; Thy frowns appal, thy smiles escape their ken,

Far lovelier the garb thou wear'st to me.

I love thy rocking storms to hear;

Thy blasts, that bid the aged mountains nod, Thy winds are music to mine ear,

To me their murmuring is the voice of God.

Thou of the kindly charities!

'Tis thine to thaw man's heart—the frigid soul, Sterner than frost, is melted, nor denies

Its aid to bid the tempest-tost be whole.

Yea mother! thou art not austere;

Though frozen be thy aspect, bliss is thine Unknown to fairer May. Upon thy shrine

Ever is seen the grateful orphan's tear.

Parent of treasures, thou!

Should I not love thee? O, can aught compare With thy dear fireside joys?—the tranquil brow,

The wife's warm smile and children's kiss are there.

FOURTH OF JULY.

When thy own Israel, God of love,

Forth from Egyptian bondage came,
Thou didst before her armies move,

In thy pavilion car of flame.
And brightly shone thy power about,

To guide and guard the chosen band,
'Till thou hadst safely brought them out

From peril, to the promised land.

So wast thou, Lord! our fathers' shield,

When they were feeble and alone; Thou, from thy war-cloud, on that field

Look’dst, and the vaunting foe was gone. So didst thou guide them, when no more

Flashed banners out and glittering swords; And thou hast blest the sea and shore,

Whose toil and battle were the Lord's.

We worship where those warriors stood,

When drum and trumpet sounded long; And on the soil that drank their blood

In peace we pour the festive song: That soil!-it nourished Freedom's tree,

The plant that freshly bourgeons now; O God, may unborn nations see

Our sons rejoice beneath its bough.

We worship-but where are the Brave

That warred and watched in manhood's bloom? Their locks are hoar, and some do wave

Amid the breezes of the tomb.
Yet thou, with more than angel's wing

Wilt overshadow Freedom's coasts;
As did their sires, the children bring

Homage to thee, Lord God of Hosts!

TO LAFAYETTE.

ON HIS EXPECTED VISIT TO THE UNITED STATES

WRITTEN IN MAY, 1824.

Thou wilt seek, aged warrior! once more

T'he soil of the grateful and free;
With thy presence wilt gladden the shore

Whose millions will recognize thee,
The ally that came from afar,

When arose the Revengeful and Proud: When the storm-burst was heard, and the star

Of freedom looked out from a cloud.

Thou wilt come and exulting survey,

Where that beautiful gem of the night, With splendour that mocks at the day,

Beams out on the field of the fight. Thou wilt come in the autumn of years,

To reap what thy spring-time had sown; To the grave, hoary man! thy compeers

Have descended, and thou art alone.

Thou wilt meet those whose glory and pride,

Whose feeling bid scorn to forget The Man whom adversity tried,

The friend of his species, Fayette ! In their sons live the fathers again,

And each bosom will throb to its core, When thou treadest the hills of the slain,

And the vales fertilized with their gore.

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