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As if, with Uriel's crown,
I stood in some great temple of the Sun, And looked, as Uriel, down!)
Nor lack there pastures rich and fields all green
With all the common gifts of God.
Through lands which look one sea of billowy gold
Broad rivers wind their devious ways;
And through yon purple haze
And, save where up their sides the ploughman creeps,
An unhewn forest girds them grandly round,
In whose dark shades a future navy sleeps! Ye Stars, which, though unseen, yet with me gaze
Upon this loveliest fragment of the earth! Thou Sun, that kindlest all thy gentlest
And you, ye Winds, that on the ocean's breast
Are kissed to coolness ere ye reach its bowers!
Bear witness with me in my song of praise, And tell the world that, since the world began,
No fairer land hath fired a poet's lays,
But these are charms already widely blown!
All Southern laurels bloom;
The Poet of "The Woodlands," unto whom Alike are known
The flute's low breathing and the trumpet's tone,
And the soft west wind's sighs;
The world doth owe thee at this day,
And which it never can repay,
Yet scarcely deigns to own!
Of this broad earth, and throngs the sea with ships
That bear no thunders; hushes hungry lips In alien lands;
Joins with a delicate web remotest strands; And gladdening rich and poor,
Doth gild Parisian domes,
Or feed the cottage - smoke of English homes,
And only bounds its blessings by mankind!
As long as rain shall fall and Heaven bend In blue above thee; though thy foes be hard
And cruel as their weapons, it shall guard Thy hearth-stones as a bulwark; make thee great
In white and bloodless state;
Revive the half-dead dream of universal peace!
As men who labor in that mine
Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the bed
Above them, and a mighty muffled roar
Of song, chanting the days to come,
Wakes from its starry silence to the hum Of many gathering armies. Still,
In that we sometimes hear,
Upon the Northern winds, the voice of woe Not wholly drowned in triumph, though I
The end must crown us, and a few brief years Dry all our tears,
I may not sing too gladly. To Thy will Resigned, O Lord! we cannot all forget That there is much even Victory must regret.
And, therefore, not too long
From the great burthen of our country's
Delay our just release!
And, if it may be, save
These sacred fields of peace
From stain of patriot or of hostile blood! Oh, help us, Lord! to roll the crimson flood Back on its course, and, while our banners wing
Northward, strike with us! till the Goth shall cling
To his own blasted altar-stones, and crave Mercy; and we shall grant it, and dictate The lenient future of his fate
There, where some rotting ships and crumbling quays
Shall one day mark the Port which ruled the Western seas.