In the good days of “auld lang syne,”
When liberty, a feeble vine,
Lay bruised and trailing on the ground,
Nor yet a single trellis found;
Gently they reared its drooping crest,
They bade its tendrils twine,
And many a traveller since hath blessed
The shadow of that vine.
THE DEMON OF THE SEA
[First printed in Bowdoin Portfolio, November, 1839.]