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Star of love's soft interviews,
Of thrilling vows thou art,-
By absence from the heart.
TO THE RAINBOW.
Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky
When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy
To teach me what thou art.
Still seem as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station givenFor happy spirits to alight
Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Can all that Optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so,
Hid in thy radiant bow ?
When Science from creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws !
And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High
Was woven in the sky.
When o'er the green undeluged earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's grey 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.
Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first made anthem rang
And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the Muse's eye,
Unraptured greet thy beam ; Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme!
The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,When glittering in the freshen'd fields
The snowy mushroom springs.
How glorious is thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town; Or mirror'd 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.
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
Ye mariners of England ! That guard our native seas ; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again, To match another foe! And sweep through the deep, · While the stormy tempests blow : While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, And ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow,As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow : While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. Britannia needs no bulwark,— No towers along the steep ; Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below,As they roar on the shore, When the stormy tempests blow : When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean warriors, Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow : When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow,
EXILE OF ERIN.
THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh!
The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger,—
A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh! Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! Oh, cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me?
They died to defend me,—or live to deplore !
Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall ?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ?
But rapture and beauty they cannot recal.
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw: Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing !
Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
Erin mavournin,-Erin go bragh !
On Linden, when the sun was low,
But Linden saw another sight,
By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
But redder yet that light shall glow
'Tis morn,--but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Han, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry.
Few, few shall part where many meet,