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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

girdled bowers, Where all that can win the heart, beams on the sight: Where life is a frolic through fancies and flowers,

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,

As time's dark curtains rise. · The volume of a hundred buried years,

Condensed in one bright sheet, appears.

I hear the angry ocean rave,

I see the lonely little barque
Scudding along the crested wave,

Freighted like old Noah's ark,
As o’er the drowned earth it whirld,
With the forefathers of another world.

I see a train of exiles stand,

Amid the desert, desolate,
The fathers of my native land,
• The daring pioneers of fate,
Who braved the perils of the sea and earth,
And gave a boundless empire birth.

I see the gloomy Indian range

His woodland empire, free as air;
I see the gloomy forest change,

The shadowy earth laid bare,
And, where the red man chased the bounding deer,
The smiling labours of the white appear.

I see the haughty warrior gaze

In wonder or in scorn,

As the pale faces sweat to raise

Their scanty fields of corn,
While he, the monarch of the boundless wood,
By sport, or hairbrained rapine, wins his food.

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,
Far as my fancy's vision spreads,

O’er many a boundless land,
Till what was once a world of savage strife,
Teems with the richest gifts of social life.

Empire to empire swift succeeds,

Each happy, great, and free;

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