For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold. Thomas Campbell. THE RAINBOW. TRIUMPHAL arch that fill'st the sky, To teach me what thou art. Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, For happy spirits to alight, Betwixt the earth and heaven. Thomas Campbell. FAITH. THIS spirit shall return to Him No! it shall live again, and shine Who robbed the grave of victory,- DISTANCE. Thomas Campbell. "Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, KOSCIUSKO. Thomas Campbell. HOPE, for a reason, bade the world farewell, Thomas Campbell. NOT TO DIE. To live in hearts we leave behind, Thomas Campbell. BRITANNIA. BRITANNIA needs no bulwarks, Her march is o'er the mountain waves, Thomas Campbell. SIN. BUT, sad as angels for the good man's sin, Thomas Campbell. THE SUNSET OF LIFE. 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. Thomas Campbell. THE SMILE OF APPROVAL. WITHOUT the smile from partial beauty won, MEMORY. Thomas Campbell. WHILE memory watches o'er the sad review Thomas Campbell. ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE III. I SAW him last on this terrace proud, Begirt with his court; and in all the crowd Bright was the sun, the leaves were green- The cymbals replied to the tambourine, I have stood with the crowd beside his bier, When every eye was dim with a tear, And the silence by sobs was broken. I have heard the earth on his coffin pour The time-since he walk'd in his glory thus, Horace Smith, 1779-1849. ADDRESS TO A MUMMY. AND thou hast walk'd about (how strange a story !) Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, PERCHANCE that very hand, now pinion'd flat, Horace Smith. HYMN TO THE FLOWERS YE matin worshippers! who bending lowly Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer. THE JESTER. Horace Smith. It needs some sense to play the fool, Occurred not to our jackanapes, Horace Smith. CUI BONO? THINKING is but an idle waste of thought, And nought is everything and everything is nought. HAIL, COLUMBIA. HAIL, Columbia! happy land! Hail, ye heroes, heaven-born band! Horace Smith. Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, Let independence be our boast, Rallying round our liberty; Joseph Hopkinson, 1770-1840. AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. THOUGH ages long have passed Since our fathers left their home, Their pilot in the blast, O'er untravelled seas to roam, Yet lives the blood of England in our veins ! That blood of honest fame, Which no tyranny can tame While the language free and bold In which our Milton told How the vault of Heaven rung, When Satan, blasted, fell with his host; Round our coast; While the manners, while the arts, Still cling around our hearts, Between let ocean roll, Our joint communion breaking with the sun: The voice of blood shall reach, More audible than speech, "We are one !" Washington Alliston, 1779-1843. |