Here shines the sun of Freedom For ever o'er the deep, Where Freedom's heroes by the shore In peaceful glory sleep; And deeds of high and proud emprize In every breeze are told, The everlasting tribute To hearts that now are cold.
Farewell, then, scenes so lovely, If sunset gild your rest, Or the pale starlight gleam upon The water's silvery breast— Or morning on these glad, green isles In trembling splendour glows— A holier spell than beauty Hallows your pure repose!
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
BY W. H. L. BOGART.
Like the lone emigrant who seeks a home In the wild regions of the far-off west, And where, as yet, no foot of man hath come, Rears a rude dwelling for his future rest.
Like him I have sought out a solitude Where all around me is unsullied yet, And reared a tenement of words as rude As the first hut on Indian prairies set.
O'er his poor house ere thrice the seasons tread Their march of storm and sunshine o'er the land, Some lofty pile will rear its haughty head, And sway the soil with high and proud command.
And round my verse the better, brighter thought Of beauty and of genius will be placed— Those gem-like words, with light and music fraught, By manly or by fairy fingers traced.
Our fate's the same—the gentle and the proud Will speed their voyage to oblivion's sea, And I shall soon be lost amid the crowd That seek a place within thy memory.