Is it in this high hall
Some pageant to survey?
Or is some glorious festival,
Of Freedom held to-day?
Lo! every seat is fill'd—
Doorway and stairs are block'd,
And, now, that sea of heads is still'd,
Which late with motion rock'd,
Why gather thus the free,
With one consentient will?
In breathless awe, they seem to be,
Hush'd as in death, and still.
I see an old man rise,
And with a sword in hand, And, glancing are a thousand eyes, Upon that gleaming brand. "This is the sword" he cries, "Which made our people free; No spot, nor stain, upon it lies,'Twas yielded but to ye.
"This sword, historians tell,
One hundred years ago,
Saved Braddock's army, when he fell,
Before a savage foe.
This is the sword, whose shine,
Our Fathers led, like star;
It is the sword of Brandywine,
Of frozen Delaware.
"In Monmouth's sultry air,
It did its gallant work,
And saw, amidst the cannon's glare,
Old England yield at York.
'Twas thine, great Washington!
And in thy valiant hand,
Like sword of God and Gideon,
Swept Midian from our land.”
A shout bursts from the throng,
Which shakes this white-capp'd hillBut hush!—we hear again that tongueBe still!-warm hearts! be still!
"This staff to you I bring,
The staff of that lov'd sage,
Who snatch'd the sceptre from a king,
And calm'd the lightning's rage.
"On it our Franklin lean'd,
Whom countless thousands bless-
The great Philosopher-the Friend
Of Ploughshare and of Press.
Franklin and Washington!!!
What mighty names are here!
Will ye accept?"-'tis done, 'tis done,
With one tremendous cheer.
Where should we place this sword?
This staff of one so wise?
A flaming sword, by God's high word,
Was placed in Paradise-
It flamed there, night and day,
To guard, of life the Tree,
So, let these Relics guard alway,
Our Tree of Liberty.
Lines Written in a Young Lady's Album.
The Prætors of Rome were accustom'd to write,
Their edicts of old on a table of white;
They called it in Latin, an album, dear miss,
And my Anna shall issue her edicts in this-
I grant her the power of life and of death,
I promise to serve her as long as I've breath; The oath of allegiance, I take as her slave,
And vow I'll be hers till I sink in the graveWhat will she decree? let it merciful be
The prize to be won, lovely Anna, be thee! Go then, she replies-write a line in my book, On which I may venture with patience to look; Ah me! what a task for a taste so refined! Where shall I the steps of true Poetry find?
Her home is in England-in Italy-Greece,-
Why will she not visit a country like this?
A thought it has struck me-perhaps 'tis a dream-
The ocean is narrowed we know to a stream,*
I'll write her a letter, and ask her to come,
And we'll give her the freedom of this Western Rome.
To Poetry.
Oh Poetry! thou nymph divine!
Invok'd so oft in vain!
How ardently I've wished you mine--
I've wrote you many a foolish line,
But still thou let'st me inly pine,
And die at thy disdain.
I've woo'd you in sequester'd vale,
On side of sunny hill;
I've sought you in the moonlight pale,
When summer's sweets perfum❜d the gale
The soft pursuit did not avail,
For thou wert cruel still.
I've sigh'd for you at midnight dark,
In silence deep-profound,
I've thought I heard you coming—hark!
I said, her form I dimly mark,
She now will bring Promethean spark-
'Twas but a cheating sound.
I've stroll'd along the sounding shore,
Thou lov'st the path sublime;
I've climb'd the cliffs where eagles soar,
And heard the torrents deaf'ning roar,
But found thee not, nor would I'm sure,
Until the end of time,
In flow'ry paths, I've look'd for you,
The beautiful, I've said
Your fancy pleased and off I flew,
Where roses round their fragrance threw, Where earth was bright and skies were blue, But where wert thou, sweet maid?
Why art thou cold? thou hast been kind To men of other climes
The favor'd few, your haunts could find,
You loved great Homer-Milton blind-
To Shakspeare gave the boundless mind,
In old and bygone times.
I've often wondered how you could,
Have such a taste, my belle!
Pope, like interrogation, stood,
And Byron, winning all he wooed,
Would o'er his club-foot darkly brood,
And yet you lov'd them well.
Is't country then ?-this western wild,
Dear nymph! that thou dost shun?
I thought thou lov’dst bold scenʼry child!
The mountains upon mountains pil'd!
Primeval forests undefiled!
Untrod since time begun.
In Avon didst thou take delight?
Or in the "wand'ring Po ?".
What strains should then awake at sight,
Of rivers vast, that in their flight
A thousand shores, with waters bright,
Have wash'd?-oh! maiden show.
Yes, yes thou wilt-but not for me,
Shalt thou awake the strain-
But here are our distinguish'd three,
Our Bryant!-Willis!-Sigourney!—
Thy spirit stirs them, Poetry!-
Go bid them sing again.
Oh to my country, Nymph! then come-
Come Poetry! divine:
Here Liberty will let thee roam
O'er all beneath her heavenly dome, Thou could'st not find a lovelier home, Oh come and make it thine.
The Lowlands and the Mountains.
I stood by Calwell's fountain,
A pilgrim at thy shrine
Hygeia! where the mountain,
Throws round a charm divine;
And as I sadly ponder'd,
My thoughts ran thus in rhyme,
To Home, from whence I've wander'd,
My far off sunny clime.
The lowlands or the mountains,
Oh! which should I love best?
Broad rivers or the fountains,
And blue hills of the West?
Those vast and giant ranges,
With vallies dark and deep,
Where Time hath wrought no changes,
Or plains of boundless sweep?
The lofty hills are charming,
And strike th' enraptur'd eye,
And He the heart is warming,
Who flung them on the sky;
What shadows dark go drifting,
Along the mountain side,
And as the clouds are shifting,
How swiftly on they glide.
Those crowning trees! how sapless!
Like skeletons they look,
So hoary and so hapless!
So drear and thunder shook!
Like sentinels they're standing
To guard some "battled tower,"
Some castle wall commanding,
For many a weary hour.
How beautiful the white clouds,
Upon those tops of blue!
At sunset ere the night shrouds,
The gorgeous scene from view,
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