It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! In a vision once I saw : Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That, with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! FELICIA HEMANS. 1793-1835. ENGLAND'S DEAD. SON of the ocean isle ! Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is reared o'er Glory's bed. Go, stranger! track the deep, On Egypt's burning plains, And the palm-trees yield no shade. But let the angry sun From heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is doneThere slumber England's dead. The hurricane hath might But let the sound roll on! For those that from their toils are gone- Loud rush the torrent-floods And free, in green Columbia's woods, But let the floods rush on! Let the arrow's flight be sped! Why should they reck whose task is done?There slumber England's dead! The mountain-storms rise high Ana toss the pine-boughs through the sky, But let the storm rage on! On the frozen deep's repose VOL. II.-Q But let the ice drift on! Let the cold-blue desert spread! Their course with mast and flag is doneThere slumber England's dead. The warlike of the isles, The men of field and wave! Go, stranger! track the deep, THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. THE breaking waves dash'd high And the heavy night hung dark When a band of exiles moor'd their bark Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear; They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amid the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea! And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free! The ocean-eagle soar'd From his nest by the white wave's foam, There were men with hoary hair Why had they come to wither there, What sought they thus afar? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?— Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod! They have left unstain'd what there they foundFreedom to worship God! THE GRAVE OF KÖRNER. GREEN wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest, Rest, bard! rest, soldier! by the father's hand In the hush'd presence of the glorious dead. The oak waved proudly o'er thy burial rite, On thy crown'd bier to slumber warriors bore thee, And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight [thee; Wept as they vail'd their drooping banners o'er And the deep guns, with rolling peal, gave token That lyre and sword were broken. Thou hast a hero's tomb: a lowlier bed Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying; Fame was thy gift from others: but for her- Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy: what hath she? It was thy spirit, brother! which had made Wo, yet not long: she linger'd but to trace The earth grew silent when thy voice departed, Here with the lyre and sword. |