AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON. ALL hail! thou noble land, O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore! The world o'er ! The genius of our clime, From his pine-embattled steep, Shall hail the great sublime; While the Tritons of the deep With their conches the kindred league shall proclaim. Then let the world combine O'er the main our naval line, Though ages long have pass'd Since our fathers left their home, Their pilot in the blast, O'er untravell'd seas to roam,— And shall we not proclaim That blood of honest fame, THE EDGE OF THE SWAMP. While the language free and bold Which the bard of Avon sung, How the vault of heaven rung, From rock to rock repeat Round our coast; While the manners, while the arts, That mould a nation's soul, Still cling around our hearts, Between let ocean roll, Our joint communion breaking with the sun Yet, still, from either beach, The voice of blood shall reach, More audible than speech, "We are one!" THE EDGE OF THE SWAMP. BY WILLIAM G. SIMMS. 'Tis a wild spot and hath a gloomy look; The bird sings never merrily in the trees, And the young leaves seem blighted. A rank growth Crowd on the dank, wet earth; and, stretch'd at length, Beside the green ooze where he shelters him. 41 42 THE EDGE OF THE SWAMP. A whooping crane erects his skeleton form, Dash up from the lagoon with marvellous haste, Which straight receives him. You behold him now, In silence to the centre of the stream, Whence his head peers alone. A butterfly, SPRING. BY NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. THE Spring is here, the delicate-footed May, Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours: We pass out from the city's feverish hum, To find refreshment in the silent woods; And Nature, that is beautiful and dumb, Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods: Yet even there a restless thought will steal, To teach the indolent heart it still must feel. Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon, The waters tripping with their silver feet, The turning to the light of leaves in June, % And the light whisper as their edges meet: Strange, that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, The spirit, walking in their midst alone. There's no contentment in a world like this, We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss, That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream; Bird-like, the prison'd soul will lift its eye, And pine till it is hooded from the sky. THE PAST. BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT. THOU unrelenting Past! Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. Far in thy realm withdrawn Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. Childhood, with all its mirth, Youth, manhood, age, that draws us to the ground, And last, man's life on earth, Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. Thou hast my better years, Thou hast my earlier friends—the good—the kind, Yielded to thee with tears The venerable form-the exalted mind. My spirit yearns to bring The lost one back: yearns with desire intense, The bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. All passage save to those who hence depart; Thou giv'st them back, nor to the broken heart. In thy abysses hide Beauty and excellence unknown: to thee Earth's wonder and her pride Are gather'd, as the waters to the sea; |