Is there no call, no consecrating cause
Approved by Heav'n, ordained by nature's laws,
Where justice flies the herald of our way,
And truth's pure beams upon the banners play?
Yes, there's a call sweet as an angel's breath
To slumbering babes or innocence in death;
And urgent as the tongue of Heaven within,
When the mind's balance trembles upon sin.
Oh! 'tis our country's voice, whose claim should meet
An echo in the soul's most deep retreat;
Along the heart's responding chords should run,
Nor let a tone there vibrate—but the one!
VARIETY.
Ask what prevailing, pleasing power
Allures the sportive, wandering bee
To roam untired, from flower to flower,
He'll tell you, 'tis variety.
Look Nature round; her features trace,
Her seasons, all her changes see;
And own, upon Creation's face,
The greatest charm's variety.
For me, ye gracious powers above!
Still let me roam, unfixt and free;
In all things,—but the nymph I love
I'll change, and taste variety.
But, Patty, not a world of charms
Could e'er estrange my heart from thee;—
No, let me ever seek those arms.
There still I'll find variety.