The poets of America, with occasional notes . turf with desperate force. As the heart clings to life ; and when resumeThe currents in his veins their wonted course, There lingers a deep feeling, like the moan Of wearied ocean, when the storm is gone. In such an hour, he turns, and on his view, Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before liifi:-- Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blueOf summers sky, in beauty bending oer him The city bright below ; and far away. Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay. Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement,And banners floating in the
The poets of America, with occasional notes . turf with desperate force. As the heart clings to life ; and when resumeThe currents in his veins their wonted course, There lingers a deep feeling, like the moan Of wearied ocean, when the storm is gone. In such an hour, he turns, and on his view, Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before liifi:-- Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blueOf summers sky, in beauty bending oer him The city bright below ; and far away. Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay. Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement,And banners floating in the sunny air, And white sails oer the calm blue waters hent,Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there. In wild reality. When life is old. And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold Its memory of this; nor lives there one, Whose infant breath was drawn, or bojnood days Of happiness we;;e passed beneath that sun,That in his manhood prime can calmly gaze Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand, Nor feel the prouder of his native CHEEVER S POETS OF AMERICA. 61 On laying the Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill Munvrment.—Pierpont. 0, IS not this a holy spot ? Tis the high place of Freedoms birth !God of our fathers! is it not The holiest spot of all the earth ? Quenched is thy flame on Horebs side; The robber roams o*er Sinai now;And those old men, thy seers, abide No more on Zions mournful brow. But on this hill thou. Lord, hast dwelt. Since round its head the war-cloud curled, And wrapped our fathers, where they kneltIn prcyer and battle for a world. Here sleeps their dust: tis holy ground: And we, the children of the bra. the four winds are gathered round. To lay our offering oil their grave. Free as the winds around us blow,Free as the waves below us spread. We rear a pile, that long shall throwIts shadow on their sacred bed. But on their deeds no shade shaH fall. While oer their couch tliy sun j-hall flame : Thine ear was bowed to hear their call,And thy ri
Size: 1290px × 1937px
Photo credit: © The Reading Room / Alamy / Afripics
License: Licensed
Model Released: No
Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1850, booksubjectamerica, bookyear1854
