They knelt them on the desert sand, By waters cold and rude, Of Oceaned solitude! They looked upon the high blue air, And felt their spirits glow, Resolved to live or perish there, Two hundred years ago! VI. The Warrior's red right arm was bared, To seek his home and child? The dark chiefs yelled alarm-and swore And his hewn bones should bleach their shore, VII. But lo! the warrior's eye grew dim, His arm was left alone The still, black wilds which sheltered him, No longer were his own! Time fled—and on this hallowed ground His highest pine lies low And cities swell where forests frowned Two hundred years ago! ODE. VIII. O! stay not to recount the tale Twas bloody-and 'tis past; The firmest cheek might well grow pale, To hear it to the last. The God of heaven, who prospers us, Could bid a nation grow, And shield us from the red man's curse Two hundred years ago! IX. Come, then-great shades of glorious men, From your still glorious grave; Look on your own proud land again, Oh, bravest of the brave! We call ye from each mouldering tomb, And each blue wave below, To bless the world ye snatched from doom Two hundred years ago! X. Then to your harps-yet louder-higher, And pour your strains along— And smite again each quivering wire, In all the pride of song! Shout for those godlike men of old, Who daring storm and foe, On this blest soil their anthem rolled, 201 AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. BY W. ALLSTON. ALL hail! thou noble land, Our fathers' native soil! Gigantic grown by toil, O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore : For thou, with magic might, Canst reach to where the light Of Phoebus travels bright The world o'er! The Genius of our clime, From pine-embattled steep, Shall hail the great sublime ; While the Tritons of the deep With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim, Then let the world combine O'er the main our naval line, Like the milky way, shall shine Bright in fame! AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. 203 Though ages long have passed Since our fathers left their home, Their pilot in the blast, O'er untravelled seas to roam, Yet lives the blood of England in our veins! And shall we not proclaim That blood of honest fame, Which no tyranny can tame While the language, free and bold, In which our Milton told How the vault of heaven rung, When Satan, blasted, fell with all his host; Ten thousand echoes greet, From rock to rock repeat Round our coast; While the manners, while the arts, That mould a nation's soul, Still cling around our hearts, Between let Ocean roll, Our joint communion breaking with the sun: Yet, still, from either beach, The voice of blood shall reach, More audible than speech, 'We are One!" THAT SILENT MOON. BY G. W. DOAN E. THAT silent moon, that silent moon, Careering now through cloudless sky, Oh! who shall tell what varied scenes Have passed beneath her placid eye, Since first, to light this wayward earth, She walked in tranquil beauty forth. How oft has guilt's unhallowed hand, Profaned her pure and holy light: But dear to her, in summer eve, By rippling wave or tufted grove, When hand in hand is purely clasped, And heart meets heart in holy love, To smile, in quiet loneliness, And hear each whispered vow and bless. |