How sweet is the voice that is calling—
Is calling in rapture to me
And leading me close to the border
Where into its home I can see!
It tells me the land is not distant,
That soon when my boat I must launch,
I shall know the voice that is calling,
Is the voice my lost darling Blanche.
When Liberty lies wounded,
And shrieks in wild despair,
Then patriots will cast aside
The party garb they wear,
And honest hands and hearts unite,
To wash away the stain
That narrow-minded partisans
Would selfishly maintain.
Dear Goddess of our fathers!
Our hands shall e'er maintain
The sacred trust of keeping free
The realm where thou dost reign;
And counting not our lives too dear
To offer unto thee,
We dedicate all that we are
To our sweet Liberty.
A PICTURE.
I sat by the farm-house window
When the winter's sun was low,
And looked on the clear horizon
O'er fields white-crested with snow.
A tree with its arms outstretching,
Was limned on the distant sky,
And my fancy saw a picture
Such as gold can never buy.
Perhaps to no other vision
Could the scene be just the same,
For blendings in the picture
Had on me a special claim.
My mother oft had looked upon
That fair picture in the west,
While sitting in that self-same chair,
Ere she laid her down to rest.