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Love of Native Country.
This is my own, my native land !
From wandering on a foreign strand !
The Last Man.
The sun himself must die,
Adown the gulf of Time !
As Adam saw her prime!
The earth with age was wan,
Around that lonely man!
In plague and famine some !
To shores where all was dumb! Yet prophet-like that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere2 leaves from the wood,
As if a storm passed by, Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow. What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth
The vassals of his will ;
For all those trophied arts
Entailed on human hearts.
Upon the stage of men,
Life's tragedy again.
Of pain anew to writhe ;
Like grass beneath the scythe.
skies To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death,Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast; The eclipse of Nature spreads thy pall, The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost ! The spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
When thou thyself art dark !
By Him recalled to breath,
And took the sting from Death!
TO THE RAINBOW.
Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up
On Nature's awful waste,
Of grief that man shall taste;
On earth's sepulchral clod;
Or shake his trust in God!
To the Rainbow. TRIUMPHANT arch, that fill'st the sky
When storms prepare to part,
To teach me what thou art.
A midway station given,
Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Thy form to please me so,
Hid in thy radiant bow?
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
To cold material laws!
But words of the Most High,
Was woven in the sky.
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign! And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.
The first-made anthem rang
And the first poet sang.
Unraptured greet thy beam;
Be still the poet's theme!
The lark thy welcome sings,
The snowy mushroom springs. How glorious is thy girdle cast
O’er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down! As fresh in yon
horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam. For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span, Nor lets the type grow pale with
age, That first spoke peace to man.
The Mariners of England. YE Mariners of England,
That guard our native seas ;
The battle and the breeze!
To match another foe;
While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.