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For now the maniac-demon, War,
Whose ravings heard so long from far,
Convulsed us with their distant jar,

Nearer and louder roars;

His arm, that death and conquest hurled
On all beside of all the world,

Claims these remaining shores.

What though the laurel leaves he tear,
Proud round his impious brow to wear

A wreath that will not fade;
What boots him its perennial power-
Those laurels canker where they flower;
son where they shade.


But thou, around whose holy head
The balmy olive loves to spread,

Return, O nymph benign!
With buds that paradise bestowed,
Whence "healing for the nations" flowed,
Our bleeding temples twine.

For thee our fathers ploughed the strand;
For thee they left that goodly land,

That turf their childhood trod;

The bearths, on which their infants played
The tombs, in which their sires were layed,

The altars of their God.

Then, by their consecrated dust,
Their spirits, spirits of the just!

Now near their Maker's face;
By their privations and their cares,
Their pilgrim toils, their patriot prayers,
Desert thou not their race.

Descend to mortal ken confest,
Known by thy white and stainless vest,
And let us, on the mountain crest

That snowy mantle see;

Oh let not here thy mission close,
Leave not the erring sons of those,
Who left a world for thee!

Celestial visitant! again
Resume thy gentle, golden reign,
No. 1. Vol. III.


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Come then, sweet fancy, spread around

Thy scenes, with fairest pleasures crowned,
And as each various joy is shown,
Mary, I'll wish it all thy own.

Yet can it be, the rapid year.

Has wrought such change, since thou wast here?
With thee remembrance joins the scene
Of Summer smiling o'er the green,
Now Winter holds his angry reign;
All dead the flowers, all drear the plain.
Thus o'er my heart hath swept the blast,
And left of what it was the waste.
Winter, thy scenes, thy howling wind,
Suit well the temper of my mind;

As now thy icy hand has stayed

The stream, that murmured o'er the glade;

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Such bliss, as once the Olny bard
Delighted sung, while Anna heard.
An Anna now inspires again;
But ah, no Cowper breathes the strain.
Around the cheerful evening fire,
May circling friends your breast inspire
With every joy, affection knows,
Whene'er in hearts, like thine, it glows.
Methinks I see the group complete;
With look so arch, and turn so neat,
There's Ann; and Sarah, o'er whose cheek,
Such flying gleams of feeling speak;
Like the soft shades and lights, that pass

Quick o'er the undulating grass;
And e'er her tongue the word supplies,
The thought is looking from her eyes.
And Ellen too, sweet girl, is there,
In friendship to forget despair;

E'en her pale cheek bright smiles relume,
Like spirits waking from the tomb.
Now wit with sportive sally plays,
And gaily all the circle sways;
And now the sober thought refined,
At once delights and mends the mind;
And now you're still as summer weather,
And now you're talking all together;
Or else perhaps some poet's song,
Or novel, charms the eve along.
The candle snuffed, the new stir'd blaze
Round the fresh forestick briskly plays;
Mark how the magic spell proceeds,
The rest at work, while Mary reads;
At first the busy needle stops,
Then down the work, neglected, drops;
Then glows the cheek with glad surprise.
Joy swells the breast, and melts the eyes;
Or down the tear of pity steals

For woes, that only fancy feels;
But not alone at fancied woe
Will the kind tear of Mary flow.
Her voice will soothe the sigh of grief,
Her hand extend the quick relief.
Oh may this bliss inspire her breast,
The bliss of making others blest.
Thus, Winter, let thy moments roll,
Sweet with such interchange of soul;

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