THE WHITE-HILLS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE.
I SEE ye towering-Genii of the North!
I see ye stand, the monuments of time,
Clad in the dread sublimity of years.
Well do I know ye by the frosty robe,
God's drapery, that wraps your giant forms.
Parents of freedom! on your hoary heights
The fearless eagle makes her eyry, there
Plants her domain, approachless to the foe.
The hardy yeoman vent'rously is seen
With patient labour toiling your ascent,
Invading solitudes, where fitful winds
Talk 'mid the pines,-he treads the dizzy cliff;
Thence, wondering, surveys the little world
Of forest, village, lake, that clothes your feet.
The sailor knows ye-nearing the rough coast,—
From the tall mast, his lonely weary watch,
Descries and greets ye as a long lost friend,
When your hoar summits glittering to the sun,
Seem to his gaze but fleecy summer clouds.
And what are works of man, the edifice,
The toil of ages?—what the aspiring dome?
Yea, what the vaunted mockers of old Time,
Egyptia's columns-what are they to these?
Works of God's finger! ye shall lift your heads
Majestically, when the pride of man
Shall waste and crumble, yea, when Memphian plains
Are cumbered with the ruined pyramid.
SUNG IN CASTLE GARDEN, NEW-YORK, BY THE SUNDAY
Oн, ye bless'd! on yonder plains,
Worshipping in noble strains,
Ranks of veiled Seraphim!
Uttering your melodious hymn,
Glorious Spirits! as ye bow,
Bearing victory's palm-branch now,
Why to Jesus give renown?
And before him cast the crown?
'Tis His love that stirs our choirs,
Silent were these breathing wires,
Mute the crystal courts above,
If the anthem were not Love.
Tell us, bright ones! as ye kneel,
Whose the richer notes that steal,
Sweet and soothing, from your throng-
Silver voices mingling song?
*The first voices by the male children who were in the area of the garden. The female children in the gallery responded in the second voice.
Children, ever near the throne,
Bow in beauteous bands alone;
Cherub harps to these are given,
And the fairest wreaths of heaven:
Praises float along the strings,
As they wave rejoicing wings,
And in lofty chorus cry
Holy is the Lord, Most High!
Warblers! we would waken here,
Music of your upper sphere;
We would hymn and worship thus,
Were those harp-notes lent to us.
First and Second Voices.
JESUS! while below we sing,
Hallowed incense may we bring;
JESUS, hear us!-take us where
Children, chosen minstrels are.
HOLY be this, as was the place
To him, of Padan-aram known,
When Abram's God revealed his face
And caught the pilgrim to the throne:
O, how transporting was the glow That thrilled his bosom, mixed with fear, "Lo! the Eternal walks below
The Highest tabernacles here!"
Be ours, when faith and hope grow dim,
The glories that the Patriarch saw;
And when we faint, may we like him
Fresh vigour from the vision draw.
Heaven's lightning hovered o'er his head,
And flashed new splendours on his view,—
Break forth, thou SUN! and freely shed
Glad rays upon our Bethel too.
'Tis ours to sojourn in a waste
Barren and cold as Shinar's ground; No fruits of Eshcol charm the taste, No streams of Meribah are found,But Thou canst bid the desert bud
With more than Sharon's rich display; And Thou canst bid the cooling flood Gush from the rock and cheer the way.
We tread the path thy people trode,
Alternate sunshine, bitter tears;
Go Thou before, and with thy rod
Divide the Jordan of our fears.
Be ours the song of triumph given,
Angelic themes to lips of clay,-
And ours the holy harp of heaven,
Whose strain dissolves the soul away.
HASTE, foes of my country! to battle advance,
To their prey loose the war-dogs of rapine again;
Let the fleur-de-lis symbol of slavery and France,
The flag of the tyrant, wave proudly o'er Spain!
Nay, cease not your curses on him that once led
Your forces, Castilians! to vanquish or fall;
Who fought for his birthright, his kindred, yet fled
From the shrine of his worship at treachery's call.
For what is his country or kindred to him
Who laughs at the birthright by villainy sold? Hence, Honour! the light that plays o'er thee is dim, Eclipsed by the lustre of royalty's gold.
O, it glads me when vengeance falls ripe on the fools Who to anarchy yield the just rights of the crown; Base plebeians! they reck not themselves are but tools Which the foot of the strong shall to dust trample
Advance, Angouleme! and deep, deep to its hilt, In the heart of the generous bury thy steel; Nay, start not, e'en murder is 'reft of its guilt,
When the hell-brooded act is for monarchy's weal.
* The Spanish General, infamous for his treason, during the invasion of Spain by the armies of Louis XVIII. in 1823.
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