’Twere a sad prospect—’twere a vista dark
As midnight—could this wearied mortal eye,
Through the dim mists that veil futurity,
Discern not that heaven-bright though distant spark,
Lighted by prophecy, whose ray sublime
Sheds a soft gleam of hope o’er the dull path of time.
I hate that noisy drum, it is a sound
That tells of war, of bondage, and I blush
That liberty had ever cause to rush
Into a warrior’s arms; that right e’er found