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ODE TO JAMESTOWN.
One empire still another breeds,
A giant progeny,
Then, as I turn my thoughts to trace
The fount whence these rich waters sprung
And find it, these rude stones among.
Their names have been forgotten long;
The stone, but not a word, remains;
Nor breathe in pious strains.
They live in millions that now breathe ;
They live in millions yet unborn,
As bright a crown as e'er was worn,
No one that inspiration drinks ;
No one that loves his native land ;
No one that reasons, feels, or thinks,
Can ʼmid these lonely ruins stand, Without a moistened eye, a grateful tear, Of reverent gratitude to those that moulder here.
The mighty shade now hovers round
Of Him whose strange, yet bright career, Is written on this sacred ground,
In letters that no time shall sere; Who in the old world smote the turbaned crew, And founded Christian empires in the new.
And she ! the glorious Indian maid,
The tutelary of this land,
The miracle of God's own hand,
Sister of charity and love,
Whose life blood was soft Pity's tide,
Flower of the Forest, nature's pride,
Jamestown, and Plymouth's hallowed rock,
To me shall ever sacred be —
ODE TO JAMESTOWN.
I care not who my themes may mock,
Or sneer at them and me.
And if the recreant crawl her earth,
Or breathe Virginia's air,
From the old Pilgrims there,
STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD.
BY C. E. DA PONTE.
Thou who art hid for ever from these eyes,
Beside thy early tomb with heavy sighs,-
My child, thy spirit bending from the skies,
Can view the wretched in the hour of prayer. Look on me now—and though it may not be
That I shall trace thy heavenly form in airShadow immortal that I cannot see,
0! wander round, and I shall deem I hear Thy low voice whisper—“Weep no more for me."
I WEEP while gazing on thy modest face,