This scene may well the future good unfold,
Which o'er th' Atlantic wave their feet had sought—
The Liberty of Conscience, prize untold,
Each shackle broke which bigotry had wrought—
Symbol, which sure our eyes do not bemock,
Of Freedom's Empire, founded on a Rock!
61. NO SORROW IN DEATH.
As now, methinks, my fated hour draws nigh,
With all its scenes before my vision clear,