XXVIII.
Yet many a sad reality is there,
That Fancy’s bright illusions cannot veil.
Pure laughs the light, and balmy breathes the air,
But Slavery’s mien will tell its bitter tale;
And there, not Peace, but Desolation, throws
Delusive quiet o’er full many a scene—
Deep as the brooding torpor of repose
That follows where the earthquake’s track hath been;
Or solemn calm on Ocean’s breast that lies,
When sinks the storm, and death has hush’d the seamen’s cries.