130 THE SHIP OF THE LINE PENNSYLVANIA, Go! seek the lawless Suliote's nest, And spoil his cruel wiles. And keep, where sail the merchant ships, And promptly, through thine iron lips, In pride of their own little hour, A freeborn, noble mind. Spread out those ample wings of thine!— 'Tis fit such bulwark of the brine For hid within thy giant strength And joy we that our country's flag Assured that in thy prowess, thou For her wilt win renown, Whose sons can die, but know not how To strike that pennon down. EVENING. BY ELIZA FOLLEN. THE sun is set, the day is o'er, The birds their vesper hymns have sung, To all the glories of the day, From every tree and every bush, There seems to breathe a soothing hush; While every transient sound but shows How deep and still is the repose. Thus calm and fair may all things be, When life's last sun has set with me; And may the lamp of memory shine As yon pale crescent, pure and fair, And may my spirit often wake Like thine, sweet bird; and, singing, take Of pleasures past, of labors done. See, where the glorious sun has set, A line of light is lingering yet: ODE TO THE MOON. BY ROBERT M. BIRD. O MELANCHOLY Moon, Queen of the midnight, though thou palest away Mine earliest friend wert thou: My boyhood's passion was to stretch me under The locust tree, and, through the chequered bough, Watch thy far pathway in the clouds, and wonder At thy strange loveliness, and wish to be The nearest star to roam the heavens with thee. Youth grew; but as it came, And sadness with it, still, with joy, I stole To gaze, and dream, and breathe perchance the name That was the early music of my soul, P 134 ODE TO THE MOON. And seemed upon thy pictured disk to trace And manhood, though it bring A winter to my bosom, cannot turn Mine eyes from thy lone loveliness; still spring The boyish yearning to be with thee still. Would it were so; for earth Grows shadowy, and her fairest planets fail; And her sweet chimes, that once were woke to mirth, Turn to a moody melody of wail, And through her stony throngs I go alone, Would it were so; for still Thou art my only counsellor, with whom Mine eyes can have no bitter shame to fill, Nor my weak lips to murmur at the doom Of solitude, which is so sad and sore, Weighing like lead upon my bosom's core. A boyish thought, and weak :- |