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There is a land of every land the pride,
Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night;
A land of beanty, virtue, valour, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth;
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so .beautiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;
In every clime the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance trembles to that pole;
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend:

Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life;
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fire-side pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?
Art thou a man ?—a patriot ? look around;
O thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy Home.
O'er China's garden-fields, and peopled floods;
In California's pathless world of woods;
Round Andes' heights, where winter from his throne
Looks down in scorn upon the summer zone;
By the gay borders of Bermuda's isles,
Where spring with everlasting verdure smiles;
On pure Madeira's vine-robed hill of health;
In Java's swamp of pestilence and wealth;
Where Babel stood, where wolves and jackalls drink;
Midst weeping willows on Euphrates' brisk;
On Carmel's crest; by Jordan's reverend stream,
Where Canaan's glories vanished like a dream;
Where Greece, a spectre haunts her heroes' graves,
And Rome's vast ruins darken Tiber's waves;
Where broken-hearted Switzerland bewails
Her subject mountains and dishonoured vales;

Where Albion's rocks exult amidst the sea
Around the beauteous isle of liberty;
Man, through all ages of revolving time,
Unchanging man, in every varying clime,
Deems his own land of every land the pride,
Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside;
His home the spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot that all the rest.



How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear,
Were discord to the speaking quietude
That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault,
Studded with stars unutterably bright,
Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which love had spread
To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills,
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow;
Yon darksome walls, whence icicles depend
So stainless, that their white and glittering spears
Tinge not the moon's pure beam; yon castled steep,


Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-wom tower.
So idly, that wrapt Fancy deemeth it
A metaphor of peace,—all form a scene
Where musing Solitude might love to lift
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness;
Where silence undisturbed might watch alone,

So cold, so bright, so still!



A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the

young, Amidst her tears the funeral chant a mournful mother sung. 'Ianthis! dost thou sleep ?—Thou sleep'st!—but. this is

not the rest, , ,

The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillowed on my


I lulled thee not to this repose, Ianthis ! my sweet son!

As in thy glowing childhood's time by twilight I have done r

—How is it that I bear to stand and look upon thee'now?

And thai I die not, seeing death on thy pale glorious bpow^3

—. * f

VOL. III. "*.

'I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and brave! I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave! Though mournfully thy smile is fixed, and heavily thine eye Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved to lie; And fast is bound the springing step, that seemed on breezes

borne, When to thy couch I came and said, —' Wake, hunter,

wake! 'tis morn!' Yet art thou lovely still, my flower! untouched by slow

decay, —And I, the withered stem, remain—I would that grief

might slay!

'Oh t ever when I met thy look, I knew that this would

be! I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for thee! I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing high ;— A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me thou

must die! That thou must die, my fearless one I where swords were

flashing red.— —Why doth a mother live to say—my first-born and my

dead? They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory

woo— —Speak thou, and I will hear! my child, Ianthis! my

sweet son!'

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