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For, faithful to its sacred page;
Heaven still rebuilds its span,
That first spoke peace to man.
The Better Land.
“I HEAR thee speak of the better land,
-“Not there, not there, my child !!!
“ Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
-“ Not there, not there, my child !”
“ Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
-“ Not there, not there, my child !"
• Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
-It is there, it is there, my child !"
The wounded Eagle.
EAGLE! this is not thy sphere !
Eagle ! wilt thou not arise ?
upon thine own bright skies !
Eagle, Eagle! thou hast bow'd
- Wherefore didst thou leave thy place, Creature of a kingly race?
Wert thou weary of thy throne ?
- Woe for gifted souls and high ! Is not such their destiny ?
MANY years ago, a poor Highland soldier, on his return to his native hills, fatigued, as it was supposed, by the length of the march, and the heat of the weather, sat down under the shade of a birch tree, on the solitary road of Lowran, that winds along the margin of Loch Ken in Galloway. Here he was found dead, and this incident forms the subject of the following verses.
From the climes of the sun, all war-worn and weary,
The Highlander sped to his youthful abode ; Fair visions of home cheered the desert so dreary, Though fierce was the noon-beam, and steep was
Till spent with the march that still lengthen'd before
him, He stopped by the way in a sylvan retreat ; The light shady boughs of the birch tree hung o'er
him, And the stream of the mountain fell soft at his feet.
He sunk to repose where the red-heaths are blended,
One dream of his childhood his fancy pass'd o'er ; But his battles are fought, and his march it is ended,
The sound of the bagpipe shall wake him no more. No arm in the day of the conflict could wound him,
Though war launched her thunder in fury to kill ; Now the angel of death in the desert has found him,
Now stretched him in peace by the stream of the bill.
Pale autumn spreads o'er him the leaves of the forest,
The fays of the wild chaunt the dirge of his rest; And thou, little brook, still the sleeper deplorest, And moistenest the heath-bell that weeps on his
The Negro's Prayer.
O SPIRIT, that rid'st in the whirlwind and storm,
Whose voice in the thunder is feared,
The prayer of affliction was heard,
Ah give thy command,
Let it spread through thy land, That Afric's sad sons may be free !
If ’erst, when the man-stealers' treacherous guile,
Entrap'd me all thoughtless of wrong,