He sued a heaven-born splendor to allay The hunger and the fever of his heart; And thus to Cynthia he did impart The fearful secret of his misery.
Oh, had I missed this Hippocrene, and slept Without full measure of the choicest draught That ever mortal man divinely quaffed, What depth of bliss the Gods from me had kept!
THE CRISIS.[7]
The roar of battle peals afar. In lurid haze, the Northern star Gleams through the flaming clouds of war; Death rides the burning blast.
What havoc on the groaning plain! What never ending heaps of slain! What tepid pools of purple rain!— We look, and stand aghast.
And still the strife resounds abroad, Earth trembles, and her forests nod, As if she felt the stamp of God, And heard His voice at last.
He speaks, indeed! Who hath an ear To learn His will, may hark and hear These hallowed words, to freedom dear, Tyrants, release the slave!
And till that mandate is obeyed, May Northern hearts beat undismayed, And all the world, with generous aid, Cheer on the loyal brave.