I looked up at Smith-Brown, my boy, and says I:
"What does he mean by the 'State of Charleston,' my fat friend?"
"Why," says he, "that's a poetic license, or American geography diluted by the Atlantic. And here we have something by the gifted hauthor of 'Locksley Hall,' which it is somewhat in that vein:
AMERICA.
BY ALFRED TEN——N.
Westward, westward flies the eagle, westward with the setting sun,
To an eyrie growing golden in a morning just begun;
Where the world is new in promise of a virgin nation's love.
And the grand results of ages germs of nobler ages prove;
Where a prophecy of greatness runs through all the soul of youth,
And the miracle of Freedom blesses in a living truth;
Where the centuries unnumbered narrow to a single night,
And their trophies are but planets wheeling round a central light.
Where the headlands breast the Ocean sweeping round creation's East,
And the prairies roll in blossoms to the Ocean of the West;
Where the voices of the seas are blended o'er a nation's birth,
In the harmony of Nature's hymn to Liberty on earth.
Land of Promise! Revelation of a loyalty that springs
From a grander depth of purple than the heritage of kings—
From the inner purple cherished at the thrones of lives sublime,
Cast in glorious consecration 'neath the plough of Father Time—