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I Come from the deeps where the mermaiden twines,
In her bowers of amber, her garlands of shells: Where the sands are of gold, and, of crystal the vines,
And the spirit of gladness unchangingly dwells — I breathed on the harp at Zephyrus' cave,
And the strain, as it rose, glided upward with me; No dwelling on earth, but my home is the wave,
And my couch is the coral grove, deep in the sea.
SONG OF THE ZEPHYR SPIRIT. 261
Thou hast dreamed—hast thou not?— of those wave-
And the soul lives in dreams of a lasting delight. Thou wouldst win what thy dreams have long brought to thy view, Thou wouldst dwell with the moon that now beams upon thee. To the fears of the earth—to its cares, bid adieu, Come, rest in the coral grove, deep in the sea.
With my breath I will fan thee when noon-day is nigh,
The gentlest of mermaids will lull thee to sleep; She will watch by thy couch when the sun passes by,
Nor fly when the moon leaves her home in the deep. Each joy thou hast sighed for, shall there be thine own,
The sorrows of time from thy slumbers shall flee, Then come with me—win all the pleasures I've shown,
Come rest in the coral grove, deep in the sea.
ODE TO JAMESTOWN.
BY J. K. PAULDING.
Old cradle of an infant world,
In which a nestling empire lay,
Struggling awhile, 'ere she unfurled,
Her gallant wing and soared away,
All hail! thou birthplace of the glowing west,
Thou seemst the towering eagle's ruined nest!
What solemn recollections throng,
What touching visions rise, As wandering these old stones among, I backward turn mine eyes, And see the shadows of the dead flit round, Like spirits, when the last dread trump shall sound!
The wonders of an age combined
In one short moment memory supplies,
ODE TO JAMESTOWN. 263
They throng upon my wakened mind,
I hear the angry ocean rave,
I see the lonely little barque
I see a train of exiles stand,
I see the gloomy Indian range
His woodland empire, free as air;
I see the haughty warrior gaze
364 ODE TO JAMESTOWN.
As the pale faces sweat to raise
A moment, and the pageant's gone;
The red men are no more; The palefaced strangers stand alone Upon the river's shore; And the proud wood king, who their arts disdained, Finds but a bloody grave, where once he reigned.
The forest reels beneath the stroke
Of sturdy woodman's axe; The earth receives the white man's yoke, And pays her willing tax Of fruits, and flowers, and golden harvest fields, And all that nature to blithe labour yields.
Then growing hamlets rear their heads,
And gathering crowds expand,
Empire to empire swift succeeds,