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Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is on the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below-
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky, But ere the shades of evening close,
Is scatter'd on the ground-to die!
Yet on the rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept the waste to see-
But none shall weep a tear for me!
My life is like the autumn leaf
That trembles in the moon's pale ray, Its hold is frail-its date is brief,
Restless and soon to pass away! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree, But none shall breathe a sigh for me!
My life is like the prints, which feet
Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race,
On that lone shore loud moans the sea, But none, alas! shall mourn for me!
THE sun, in summer majesty on high,
Darted his fierce effulgence down the sky;
Yet dimm'd and blunted were the dazzling rays,
His orb expanded through a dreary haze,
And, circled with a red portentous zone,
He look'd in sickly horror from his throne:
When higher noon had shrunk the lessening shade,
Thence to his home our father we convey'd,
And stretch'd him, pillow'd with his latest sheaves,
On a fresh couch of green and fragrant leaves.
Here, though his sufferings through the glen were known,
We chose to watch his dying-bed alone,
Eve, Seth, and I.-In vain he sigh'd for rest,
And oft his meek complainings thus express'd:
"Blow on me, Wind! I faint with heat! O bring
Delicious water from the deepest spring;
Your sunless shadows o'er my limbs diffuse,
Ye Cedars! wash me cold with midnight dews;
Cheer me, my friends! with looks of kindness cheer;
Whisper a word of comfort in mine ear;
These sorrowing faces fill my soul with gloom-
This silence is the silence of the tomb."
The sun went down, amidst an angry glare
Of flushing clouds, that crimson'd all the air;
The winds brake loose; the forest-boughs were torn,
And dark aloof the eddying foliage borne;
Cattle to shelter scudded in affright;
The florid Evening vanish'd into night:
Then burst the hurricane upon the vale,
In peals of thunder, and thick-volley'd hail;
Prone rushing rains with torrents whelm'd the land;
Our cot amidst a river seem'd to stand;
Around its base, the foamy-crested streams
Flash'd through the darkness to the lightning's gleams; With monstrous throes an earthquake heaved the ground; The rocks were rent, the mountains trembled round.
Amidst this war of elements, within
More dreadful grew the sacrifice of sin,
Whose victim on his bed of torture lay,
Breathing the slow remains of life away.
Erewhile, victorious faith sublimer rose
Beneath the pressure of collected woes;
But now his spirit waver'd, went and came,
Like the loose vapour of departing flame,
Till at the point, when comfort seem'd to die
For ever in his fix'd unclosing eye,
Bright through the smouldering ashes of the man,
The saint brake forth, and Adam thus began:—
"O ye who shudder at this awful strife,
This wrestling agony of Death and Life,
Think not that He, on whom my soul is cast,
Will leave me thus forsaken to the last;
Nature's infirmity alone you see;
My chains are breaking, I shall soon be free:
Though firm in God the spirit holds her trust,
The flesh is frail, and trembles into dust.
Thou, of my faith the Author and the End!
Mine early, late, and everlasting Friend!
The joy, that once Thy presence gave, restore,
Ere I am summon'd hence, and seen no more;
Down to the dust returns this earthly frame-
Receive my spirit, Lord! from whom it came."
He closed his eyelids with a tranquil smile,
And seem'd to rest in silent prayer awhile:
Around his couch with filial awe we kneel'd,
When suddenly a light from heaven reveal'd
A Spirit, that stood within the unopen'd door,
The sword of God in his right hand he bore;
His countenance was lightning, and his vest
Like snow at sun-rise on the mountain's crest;
Yet so benignly beautiful his form,
His presence still'd the fury of the storm;
At once the winds retire, the waters cease;
His look was love, his salutation "Peace!"
Our Mother first beheld him, sore amazed,
But terror grew to transport, while she gazed.—
""Tis he, the Prince of Seraphim! who drove
Our banish'd feet from Eden's happy grove.
Adam, my Life, my Spouse, awake!" she cried;
"Return to Paradise; behold thy Guide!
O let me follow in this dear embrace !"
She sunk, and on his bosom hid her face.
Adam look'd up; his visage changed its hue,
Transform'd into an Angel's at the view.
"I come!" he cried, with faith's full triumph fir'd,
And in a sigh of ecstasy expir'd.
The light was vanish'd, and the vision fled;
We stood alone, the living with the dead;
The ruddy embers, glimmering round the room,
Display'd the corpse amidst the solemn gloom;
But o'er the scene a holy calm repos'd,
The gate of heaven had open'd there, and clos'd.