For plenty here her fulness pours
In rich profusion o'er the land,
And sent to seize her generous stores,
There prowls no tyrant's hireling band.
Great GOD! we thank thee for this home-
This bounteous birthland of the free;
Where wanderers from afar may come,
And breathe the air of liberty!-
Still may her flowers untrampled spring,
Her harvests wave, her cities rise;
And yet, till Time shall fold his wing,
Remain Earth's loveliest paradise!
"How then," exclaim'd the boy, "shall I dis. charge
The burthen of this happiness.-how ease
My overflowing soul!-Oh, gracious God,
Shall I behold my mother's face again,-
My father's hall,-my native hills and vales,
And hear the voices of their streams again,-
And free as I was born amid those scenes
Beloved, maintain my country's freedom there,—
Or failing in a sacred enterprise,
Die as becomes a Spaniard!"
LAND of the forest and the rock-
Of dark blue lake and mighty river-
Of mountains rear'd aloft to mock
The storm's career, the lightning's shock-
My own green land for ever!
Land of the beautiful and brave
The freeman's home-the martyr's grave-
The nursery of giant men,
Whose deeds have link'd with every glen,
And every hill, and every stream,
The romance of some warrior-dream!
Oh! never may a son of thine,
Where'er his wandering steps incline,
Forget the sky which bent above
His childhood like a dream of love-
The stream beneath the green hill flowing-
The broad-arm'd trees above it growing-
The clear breeze through the foliage blowing;
Or hear, unmoved, the taunt of scorn
Breathed o'er the brave New England born:
Or mark the stranger's jaguar band
Disturb the ashes of thy dead-
The buried glory of a land
Whose soil with noble blood is red,
U
And sanctified in every part,―
Nor feel resentment, like a brand,
Unsheathing from his fiery heart!
Oh! greener hills may catch the sun
Beneath the glorious heaven of France;
And streams rejoicing as they run,
Like life beneath the day-beam's glance,
May wander where the orange-bough
With golden fruit is bending low:
And there may bend a brighter sky
O'er green and classic Italy-
And pillar'd fane and ancient grave
Bear record of another time,
And over shaft and architrave
The green luxuriant ivy climb;
And far toward the rising sun
The palm may shake its leaves on high,
Where flowers are opening, one by one,
Like stars upon the twilight sky,
And breezes soft as sighs of love
Above the broad banana stray,
And through the Brahmin's sacred grove
A thousand bright-hued pinions play!
Yet unto thee, New England, still
Thy wandering sons shall stretch their arms,
And thy rude chart of rock and hill
Seem dearer than the land of palms;
Thy massy oak and mountain pine
More welcome than the banyan's shade;
And every free, blue stream of thine
Seem richer than the golden bed
Of oriental waves, which glow
And sparkle with the wealth below!
THIS IS MY OWN, MY NATIVE LAND!
BREATHES there a man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well,
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.
O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand?
Still, as I view each well-known scene,
Think what is now, and what hath been,
Seems as, to me, of all bereft,
Sole friends thy woods and streams were left, And thus I love them better still,
Even in extremity of ill.
By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way;
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
Although it chill my wither'd cheek;
Still lay my head by Teviot Stone,
Though there, forgotten and alone,
The Bard may draw his parting groan.
No common coject to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure heaven itself surveys,
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country's cause?
Who sees him act, but envies every deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
|