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At eve,

September noon, has bathed his heated brow
In thy cool current. Shouting boys let loose
For a wild holiday, have quaintly shaped
Into a cup the folded linden leaf,
And dipped thy sliding crystal. From the wars
Returning, the plumed soldier by thy side
Has sat, and mused how pleasant 'twere to dweh
In such a spot, and be as free as thou,
And move for no man's bidding more.
When thou wert crimson with the crimson sky,
Lovers have gazed upon thee, and have thought
Their mingled lives should flow as peacefully
And brightly as thy waters. Here the sage,
Gazing into thy self-replenished depth,
Has seen eternal order circumscribe
And bind the motions of eternal change,
And from the gushing of thy simple fount
Has reasoned to the mighty universe.

Is there no other change for thee, that lurks
Among the future ages? Will not man
Seek out strange arts to wither and deform
The pleasant landscape which thou makest green ?
Or shall the veins that feed thy constant stream
Be choked in middle earth, and flow no more
For ever, that the water-plants along
Thy channel perish, and the bird in vain
Alight to drink? Haply shall these green hills
Sink, with the lapse of years, into the gulf
Of ocean waters, and thy source be lost
Amidst the bitter brine? Or shall they rise
Upheaved in broken cliffs and airy peaks,
Haunts of the eagle and the snake, and thou
Gush midway from the bare and barren steep ?




PILLARS are fallen at thy feet,
Fanes quiver in the air,
A prostrate city is thy seat,
And thou alone art there.

No change comes o’er thy noble brow,
Though ruin is around thee;
Thine eyebeam burns as proudly now,
As when the laurel crowned thee.

It cannot bend thy lofty soul
Though friends and fame depart;
The car of fate may o'er thee roll,
Nor crush thy Roman heart.

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And genius hath electric power,
Which earth can never tame;
Bright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lower-
Its flash is still the same.

The dreams we loved in early life,
May melt like mist away;
High thoughts may seem, mid passion's strise,
Like Carthage in decay ;

And proud hopes in the human heart
May be to ruin hurled ;
Like mouldering monuments of art
Heaped on a sleeping world:

Yet, there is something will not die,
Where life hath once been fair;
Some towering thoughts still rear on high,
Some Roman lingers there!



Oh mighty is the Lord of Hosts!

He spans the spangled skies; He speaks, and in its palaces

The midnight thunder cries !

He wields the awful lightning-brand,

The war-torch of the storm, Whether upon the Northern pines

It rocks its cloud-wrapt form;

Or, conquering, tramps right royally

The hollow-sounding seas, Or holds high carnival among

The crashing mountain trees!

His earthquakes shake the eternal hills

And toss “old ocean's locks;"



The hungry breakers howl amain,

Between the dreadful shocks :

And the swift whirlwind spinning o'er

The mountain bald and pale,
Raves wildly to the angry flood

That thunders in the vale.

He sows death in the red simoon,

And cities shrink aghast ;
He speaks! and mist-wrapt pestilence,

In horrid gloom, moves past !

Oh mighty is the Lord of Hosts !

Of all earth's kings, the King! Behold! he shakes the mountain pine,

And plumes the whirlwind's wing!

And from his throne of majesty,

Upon the bended sky,
Around the universe he casts

His all-beholding eye!

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