WHERE dark Champlain in sullen grandeur rolls,
Its swelling billow, checked by iron shores,
Nature's firm barrier, 'neath the towering cliff,
That rears in solitude its craggy form,
The scattered ruins tell the scite of war.
Lone, dreary spot; dark silence here
In solemn grandeur reigns. In vain the eye
Ranges the prospect to relieve its pain.
Black sterile rocks oppose the bounded vision,
With the deep ravine, where sad brooding fancy
Hath ample scope; naught specks the cheerless scene,
Save here, and there, the moss-grown fragment,
Or time-crazed tenement. No echoing sound
Disturbs the scene or breaks the still repose,
Save the hoarse scream of midnight's lonely bird
Or the dull moaning of the surge below.
Yet here was war, and once stern valour knew
These dreary solitudes her choice abode;-
These still retreats once glowed with busy life,
And preparation. Yon lofty mount,*
Now lorn and desolate, displayed its crest,
Breathing dark vengeance on the invading foe.
Here, veteran legions, warmed with valour's flame,
For thee my country, and the rights of manhood,—
Embattled, formed the sure and mighty rampart,
That wall of adamant, a virtuous soldiery.
Here waved the chieftain's plume, and here thy lion heart,
Eccentric ALLEN, valorous and good,
Beat high for fame, and glorious Liberty.
How swelled thy bosom with the generous flame
And eager hope, as thought, with rapid stride,
Disdaining fear, and hosts of boding ill,
Pierced the thick gloom, and saw a nation free.
Now, how forgotten and how lone is all;-In honour's bed the war worn chieftains rest,Forgot the din of conflict: e'en victory's clarion Is now unheard.-They sleep, and we their offspring Blest with the boon that virtuous valour purchased,Reap the rich harvest of their blood and toil.
Ye hallowed ruins! ye retreats, enwrapt
In saddened gloom, I still shall ever love ye,
For ye are dear to freedom; each patriot heart
Shall ever kindle with the holy flame,
Caught from this shrine, while pondering o'er the past
It yields its homage to the sacred soil,
And breathes a prayer for valour now departed.
'Tis night; from beauteous Palestine, The song and minstrelsy have flown, 'Tis night; the priest forsakes the shrine, The holy temple sits alone:
Gone is the boasting Pharisee,
The prayer, and daily alms are o'er,
E'en the despised Sadducee
For secret frailty sighs no more.
Hushed are the strains that bade rejoice,
Silent the weary and opprest,
Lost is the maid and matron's voice
For Solyma hath sunk to rest.
But where is Jesus? where is He
The man afflicted and forlorn,—
Co-equal with the Deity,
The object of rebuke and scorn?
No follower of the Lord is here;
For Him no eyes their vigils keep;
They that have mingled tear with tear,
Forget their woes in reckless sleep.
Closed is each ear to human moan,
Save His, who wakes to bitter care;
Hushed is each grief, but His alone.
Who weeps for man the midnight prayer.
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