When clouds are gathering, or when whirlwinds blow,
When heaven is dark with storms, or brightly fair,
Where'er the viewless waves of ether flow,
Calm or in tempest rolling, I am there.
My country-at the sound of that dear name
The wanderer's heart awakens, nerved and bold
Before him stand the deeds and days of old,
The tombs of ages, and the rolls of fame,
Sculptured on columns, where the living flame
Of freedom lights anew its fading ray,
And glows in emulation of that day,
When on their foes they stamped the brand of shame :
Yes, at the thought of these bright trophies leaps
The spirit in his bosom, and he turns
His longing eye to where his parent sleeps,
And high on rocks his country's beacon burns;
And though the world be gayest, and sweet forms
Of love and beauty call him, he would fly,
And walk delighted in her mountain storms,
And man his soul with valor at her cry,
And in the fiercest shock of battle die.
THOUGH furled be the banner of blood on the plain,
And rusted the sabre once crimsoned with gore;
Though hushed be the ravens that croaked o'er the slain,
And calmed into silence the battle's loud roar;
Though Peace with her rosy smile gladden the vales,
And Commerce unshackled dance over the wave;
Though Music and Song may enliven the gales,
And Joy crown with roses and myrtle the brave;
Like spirits that start from the sleep of the dead,
Our heroes shall rouse when the larum shall blow;
Then Freedom's broad flag on the wind shall be spread,
And Valor's sword flash in the face of the foe.
Our Eagle shall rise 'mid the whirlwinds of war,
And dart through the dun cloud of battle his eye-
Shall spread his wide wings on the tempest afar,
O'er spirits of valour that conquer or die,
And ne'er shall the rage of the conflict be o'er,
And ne'er shall the warm blood of life cease to flow,
And still 'mid the smoke of the battle shall roam
Our Eagle-till scattered and fled be the foe.
When Peace shall disarm War's dark brow of its frown, And roses shall bloom on the soldier's rude grave
Then Honor shall weave of the laurel a crown,
That Beauty shall bind on the brow of the brave.
He has gone to the land where the dead are still,
And mute the song of gladness;
He drank at the cup of grief his fill,
And his life was a dream of madness;
The victim of fancy's torturing spell,
From hope to darkness driven;
His agony was the rack of hell,
His joy the thrill of heaven.
He has gone to the land where the dead are cold,
And thought will sting him-never;
The tomb its darkest veil has roll'd
O'er all his faults for ever.
O! there was light that shone within
The gloom that hung around him;
His heart was formed to woo and win,
But love had never crowned him.
He has gone to the land where the dead may rest In a soft unbroken slumber,
Where the pulse that swelled his anguished breast, Shall never his torture number;
Ah! little the reckless witlings know
How keenly throbbed and smarted
That bosom which burned with a brightest glow,
Till crushed and broken-hearted.
He longed to love, and a frown was all
The cold and thoughtless gave him;
He sprang to Ambition's trumpet-call,
But back they rudely drove him :
He glowed with a spirit pure and high;
They called the feeling madness,
And he wept for wo with a melting eye,
'Twas weak and moody sadness.
He sought with an ardour full and keen,
To rise to a noble station,
But repulsed by the proud, the cold, the mean, He sunk in desperation ;
They called him away to Pleasure's bowers,
But gave him a poisoned chalice,
And from her alluring wreath of flowers
They glanced the grin of malice.
He felt that the charm of life was gone,
That his hopes were chilled and blasted,
That being wearily lingered on
In sadness while it lasted;
He turned to the picture fancy drew,
Which he thought would darken never;
It fled to the damp cold grave he flew,
And he sleeps with the dead for ever.
THE sunset is calm on the face of the deep,
And bright is the last look of day in the west,
And broadly the beams of its parting glance sweep,
Like the path that conducts to the land of the blest :
All golden and green is the sea as it flows
In billows just heaving its tide to the shore;
And crimson and blue is the sky as it glows
With the colours that tell us that day-light is o'er.
I sit on a rock that hangs over the wave,
And the snow heaves and tosses its snow-wreaths below, And the flakes, gilt with sunbeams, the flowing tide pave, Like the gems that in gardens of sorcery grow:
I sit on the rock, and I watch the light fade,
Still fainter and fainter away in the west,
And I dream I can catch, through the mantle of shade,
A glimpse of the dim distant land of the blest.
And I long for a home in that land of the soul,
Where hearts always warm glow with friendship and love, And days ever cloudless still cheerily roll,
Like the age of eternity blazing above:
There with friendships unbroken, and loves ever true,
Life flows on, one gay dream of pleasure and rest,
And green is the fresh turf, the sky purely blue,
That mantle and arch o'er the land of the blest.
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