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It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she play'd,

Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me

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!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drank the milk of Paradise.

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,

Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,

Where rest not England's dead.
On Egypt's burning plains,

By the Pyramid o'erswayed,
With fearful power the noonday reigns,

And the palm-trees yield no shade.

But let the angry sun

From heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done

There slumber England's dead.

The hurricane hath might

Along the Indian shore,
And far, by Ganges' banks at night

Is heard the tiger's roar.

But let the sound roll on!

It hath no tone of dread
For those that from their toils are gone-

There slumber England's dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods

The western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia's woods,

The hunter's bow is strung.

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

In the snowy Pyrenees, Ana toss the pine-boughs through the sky,

Like rose-leaves on the breeze.

But let the storm rage on!

Let the forest-wreaths be shed !
For the Roncesvalles' field is won-

There slumber England's dead.
On the frozen deep's repose

'Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
When round the ship the icefields close,

To chain her with their power. VOL. II.-Q

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But let the ice drift on!

Let the cold-blue desert spread!
Their course with mast and flag is done-

There slumber England's dead.
The warlike of the isles,

The men of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their funeral piles,

The seas and shores their grave ?
Go, stranger! track the deep,

Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,

Where rest not England's dead.

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIY FATHERS. The breaking waves dash'd high

On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods, against a stormy sky,

Their giant branches toss'd;
And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moor'd their bark

On the wild New-England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,

And the trumpet that sings of fame;
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, And the rocking pines of the forest roared

This was their welcome home!
There were men with hoary hair

Amid that pilgrim-band;
Why had they come to wither there,

Away from their childhood's land ?
There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,

And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-

They sought a faith's pure shrine !
Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod ! They have left unstain'd what there they found

Freedom to worship God!

THE GRAVE OF KÖRNER.

GREEN wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest,

Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest, And, in the stillness of thy country's breast,

Thy place of memory, as an altar, keepest;
Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was pourd,

Thou of the lyre and sw rd!
Rest, bard ! rest, soldier! by the father's hand

Here shall the child of after years be led,
With his wreath-offering, silently to stand

In the hush'd presence of the glorious dead. Soldier and bard! for thou thy path hast trod

With freedom and with God.

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 ; The gentle girl, that bow'd her fair young head

When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying.
Brother, true friend! the tender and the brave,

She pined to share thy grave.
Fame was thy gift from others : but for her-

To whom the wide world held that only spotShe loved thee: lovely in your lives ye were,

And in your early deaths divided not. Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy: what hath she ?

Her own best place by thee! · It was thy spirit, brother! which had made

The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye, Since first in childhood mid the vines ye play'd,

And sent glad singing through the free blue sky. Ye were but two: and when that spirit pass'd,

Wo to the one, the last !
Wo, yet not long : she linger'd but to trace

Thine image from the image in her breast,
Once, once again to see that buried face

But smile upon her ere she went to rest.
Too sad a smile! its living light was o'er :

It answerd hers no more.
The earth grew silent when thy voice departed,

The home too lonely whence thy step had fled: What then was left for her, the faithful-hearted ?

Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead. Softly she perish’d; be the flower deplored,

Here with the lyre and sword.

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