AN ODE.

O’er the wild Atlantic wave,

Lo the fiends of discord rave;

Battle’s bray is heard from far,

Battle’s bray is heard from far,

To Bellona’s blood-stain’d car,

Yoked the madding steeds of war:—

But no fiend of battle roars

Round Columbia’s happy shores;

Peace and plenty, hand in hand,

Join to bless her happy land.

CHORUS.

Laud we then the God of Heav’n,

At whose behest fair peace is giv’n,

The God, who led our fathers o’er

To Columbia’s happy shore.

Where th’ embattled host of France,

To the kindling war advance,

There shall heroes bite the dust,

There shall heroes bite the dust,

Blood shall tinge the rubrick waves

Where the fiend of battle raves.

Sons of honor, “Sons of soul,”

Whom no tyrants can control,

Patriotic myriads join,

Round fair freedom’s sacred shrine.

Ever laud the God of Heav’n,

At whose behest fair peace is giv’n,

The God, who led our fathers o’er,

To Columbia’s happy shore.

Where Britannia’s sons unite

To provoke the distant fight,

There shall countless heroes fall,

There shall countless heroes fall,

When the din of battle join’d,

Hurtles in the hollow wind.

Fiends of horror flit around,

Dying heroes strow the ground,

Countless ghosts shall wailing go

To the sullen shades below.

Laud we then the God of Heav’n,

At whose behest fair peace is giv’n,

The God who led our fathers o’er,

To Columbia’s happy shore.

May not anarch’s hydra form,

Thunder his voice, his breath the storm,

Desolate our happy land,

Desolate our happy land—

Mid fell discord’s wild uproar,

May no fiend of anarch roar,

Call the rugged, meddling throng

Of every clime, of every tongue,

To light fair freedom’s funeral pyre,

And bid her mid the blaze expire.

May the gracious God of Heav’n,

At whose behest fair peace is giv’n,

The God who led our fathers o’er,

Still protect Columbia’s shore.

THE COURSE OF CULTURE.[133]

Survey the world, through every zone,

From Lima to Japan,

In lineaments of light ’tis shown

That CULTURE makes the man.

By manual culture one attains

What industry may claim,

Another’s mental toil and pains

Attenuate his frame.

Some plough and plant the teeming soil

Some cultivate the arts;

And some devote a life of toil

To tilling heads and hearts.

Some train the adolescent mind,

While buds of promise blow,

And see each nascent twig inclined

The way the tree should grow.

The first man, and the first of men,

Were tillers of the soil;

And that was mercy’s mandate then,

Which destined man to moil.

Indulgence preludes fell attacks

Of merciless disease,

And sloth extends on fiery racks

Her listless devotees.

Hail, Horticulture! Heaven-ordained,

Of every art the source,

Which man has polished, life sustained,

Since time commenced his course.

Where waves thy wonder-working wand

What splendid scenes disclose!

The blasted heath, the arid strand,

Out-bloom the gorgeous rose!

Even in the SERAPH-SEX is thy

Munificence described;

And Milton says in lady’s eye

Is Heaven identified.

A seedling, sprung from Adam’s side,

A most celestial shoot!

Became of Paradise the pride,

And bore a world of fruit.

The lily, rose, carnation, blent

By Flora’s magic power,

And tulip, feebly represent

So elegant a flower:

Then surely, bachelors, ye ought

In season to transfer

Some sprig of this sweet “TOUCH-ME-NOT,”

To grace your own parterre;

And every gardener should be proud,

With tenderness and skill,

If haply he may be allowed

This precious plant to till.

All that man has, had, hopes, can have,

Past, promised, or possessed,

Are fruits which CULTURE gives or gave

At INDUSTRY’S behest.