In sorrow dying, as in sorrow born.

* * * * *

From "The Tourist"

=_354._= VIEW AT GIBRALTAR.

And from this height, how beauteous to survey
The neighboring shores, the bright cerulean bay:
Myriads of sails are swelling on the deep,
And oars, in myriads, through the waters sweep.
Behold, in peace, all nations here unite,
Their various pennons streaming to the sight:
The red cross glows, the Danish crown appears,
The half-moon rises, and the lion rears,
But mark, bold-towering o'er the conscious wave,
The starry banners of my country brave,
Stream like a meteor to the wooing breeze,
And float all-radiant o'er the sunny seas!
Hail, native flag! for ever mayst thou blow--
Hope to the friend, and terror to the foe!
Again I hail thee, Calpe! on thy steep
I wandered high, and gazed upon the deep!
Nature's best fortress, which no warlike foe,
No martial scheme, can ever overthrow.
Art, too, had added strength, and given a grace
That smooths the rugged aspect of thy face.
What wondrous halls along the mountain made!
What trains of cannon in those halls arrayed!
They frown imperious from their lofty state,
Prepared around to deal the scourge of fate.

* * * * *

=_Elijah P. Lovejoy,[81] 1802-1816._=

From "Lines to my Mother."

=_355._=

There is a fire that burns on earth,
A pure and holy flame;
It came to men from heavenly birth,
And still it is the same
As when it burned the chords along
That bore the first-born seraph's song;
Sweet as the hymn of gratitude
That swelled to Heaven when "all was good."
No passion in the choirs above
Is purer than a mother's love.
* * * * *
My mother! I am far away
From home, and love, and thee;
And stranger hands may heap the clay
That soon may cover me;
Yet we shall meet--perhaps not here,
But in yon shining, azure sphere;
And if there's aught assures me more,
Ere yet my spirit fly,
That Heaven has mercy still in store
For such a wretch as I,
'Tis that a heart so good as thine
Must bleed, must burst, along with mine.

And life is short, at best, and time
Must soon prepare the tomb;
And there is sure a happier clime
Beyond this world of gloom.
And should it be my happy lot,
After a life of care and pain,
In sadness spent, or spent in vain