HYMN FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1813.
FATHER, again before thy throne,
Thy suppliant children humbly pray; With grateful hearts thy mercy own,
That crowns once more their natal day.
Though War our fertile valleys stain,
Though Slaughter bare his gory hand,
Though Famine lead her ghastly train,
We glory in our native land.
Yes, 'tis our own, our fathers' home-
Their ashes rest beneath the sod;
The fields that now our children roam,
Their footsteps once as gladly trod.
Our hardy sons, who till the earth,
Undaunted still will danger face;
The land that gave our fathers birth
Will never bear a coward race.
The gallant few, who plough the deep,
Can sternly meet the raging storm; And o'er the swelling ocean sweep Unmoved at Danger's giant form.
But braver hearts have shrunk from fight When kindred blood must dye the steel;—
The boldest to contend for right,
The ties of nature strongest feel.
Father, once more "good will" proclaim,
And bid conflicting passions cease;
Repress each proud, ambitious aim,
And give thy suppliant children "peace."
A POEM PREPARED AS AN EXERCISE FOR COMMENCEMENT,
BLEST be that power, whose cheering smile bestows
On sorrow joy, on weariness repose:
Blest be that power, whose influence can impart
A transient pleasure to the wounded heart.
While o'er the rugged paths of life we stray,
Heaven gave thee, Fancy, to illume our way.
Waked by thy breath, the poet's warbling tongue
Pours the full tide of rapture and of song.
When musing Memory dwells on sorrows near,
And fond Affection drops a plaintive tear;
When sickening Conscience shrinks aghast from thought;
When Honor drops the wreath his blood has bought;
Then Hope, by Fancy led, dispels the sigh,
Fills the warm heart, and fires the sparkling eye.
Thus when the shades of night invest the pole,
And deepening clouds in awful grandeur roll;
Fairest of stars, what joy attends thy ray,
The gem of morn, the harbinger of day.
But chief to Fiction, Fancy's darling child,
Breathing in varied strains her visions wild,
When Care's stern glance has checked the flight of time, We owe the song of joy, the strain sublime.
In orient colors drest, with wild flowers crowned,
She bids her lyre to every lay resound.
Now when the morning splendor gilds the scene,
Or evening sheds her mellow tints serene,
She melts the heart with some wild tale of woe,
And bids the silent tear of pity flow.
Anon, when darkness broods o'er all the ground,
And Danger's giant form stalks hideous round,
Of caves, and rocks, and forests drear she sings,
And with a hurried hand sweeps wildly o'er the strings.
In Gothic halls with ancient trophies drest,
When love and war alternate swayed the breast,
Romance arose ; amid the din of arms,
The trump of war, the battle's loud alarms,
Her youth was spent ; and oft at midnight hour
She traced the moss-grown walls, the ruined tower,
Where once Ambition held his bloody reign,
Or moody Madness clanked the hopeless chain
But now stern Ruin shakes its mouldering pride,
And columns sink beneath its whelming tide.
Then rising slowly from the marble tomb,
What haggard forms stalk threatening through the gloom! What shrieks of woe assail the startled ear,
Lo! Murder's blasted front, and frantic Fear!
When first Religion roused the warrior band,
To drive the oppressor from the Holy Land,
Like ocean's billows rolled the hardy train,
And soon o'erwhelmed the pomp of Asia's reign.
When peace, wealth, glory crowned at length their toils,
At Beauty's feet they laid their hard-earned spoils.
Then Woman reigned supreme, her care refined,
And Love, Devotion, Glory ruled the mind.
Though from that time her lasting sway began,
She was the goddess, not the friend of man.
The haughty chieftain at her shrine adored,
But once possessed, the slave became the lord.
Yet, day of chivalry forever fled,
What tears for thee shall Love and Nature shed?
Who now in passion pure, in taste refined,
To fancy's visions gives the glowing mind,
Since sordid Avarice calls on Hymen's name,
And dull Convenience lights the nuptial flame?
Hail bard of Fancy, thou whose works sublime
Still roll in triumph down the stream of time,
Hail Ariosto! still the trump of fame,
To distant ages will thy song proclaim;
Though wildly great, thy daring Muse presumed
To search the deep where rebel sprites are doomed,
Though, raised to ecstacy, she rode sublime,
And boldly passed the bounds of place and time;
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