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By our blood in Afric wasted,
Deem our nation brutes no longer,
FATHER, who made all the beautiful flowers,
The emerald leaves and the blossomings-
-Not the sun, my dear child, but One greater
Father, whose hand form'd the blue tinted sky,
What are those stars we view, shining in air?
Father, from whence came our own lovely land, With its rivers and seas, and its mountains so grand; Its tall frowning rocks, and its shell-spangled shore? Were not these the work of some people of yore?Owe these not their birth to man's own good decree? -Not to man, my dear child, but One greater than he !
From God came the trees, and the flowers, and the earth
To God do the mountains and seas owe their birth:
The sun, moon, and stars, and the beautiful sky:
THE BYRON OAK.
[Lord Byron, on his first arrival at Newstead, in 1798, planted an Oak in the garden; and nourished the fancy, that as the tree flourished so should he. On revisiting the abbey, he found the Oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed ;-hence these lines.]
YOUNG Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground,
I hop'd that thy days would be longer than mine; That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around,
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine.
Such, such was my hope, when in infancy's years On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride: They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears, Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide.
I left thee, my Oak, and since that fatal hour,
Oh! hardy thou wert-even now little care
But thou wert not fated affection to share
For who could suppose that a stranger would feel? Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while; Ére twice round yon glory this planet shall run, The hand of thy master will teach thee to smile,
When infancy's years of probation are done.
Oh, live then, my Oak ! tow'r aloft from the weeds, That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds,
And still may thy branches their beauty display. Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine,
Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death, On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, Uninjur'd by time, or the rude winter's breath:
For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid; While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave,
The chief who survives may recline in thy shade: And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot, He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread: Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot:
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.
And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime, Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay; And here must he sleep, till the moments of time Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.
WE come to being from the night,
A mother's love, her smiles, her tears,
Warmth, light, in age's wintry gloom,
Then knowledge comes with manhood's noon-
A common vision is the spring;
THE lark has sung his carol in the sky;
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.
A few short years—and then these sounds shall hail
The day again, and gladness fill the vale;
Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sir-loin;
And soon again shall music swell the breeze; Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scatter'd round; and old and young,