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God prosper the cause!—Oh! it cannot but thrive,
Its devotion to feel and its rights to maintain:
THERE is a streamlet issuing from a rock,
Dip their white vestments in its waters clear,
At once spoke joy and sadness to my soul!
Dear is that valley to the murmuring bees.
CAGED in old woods whose reverend echoes wake
When the hern screams along the distant lake,
Oft sighs to turn the unrelenting key.
In vain! the nurse that rusted relic wears,
THEY sin who tell us Love can die.
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell.
Earthly these passions, as of earth,
They perish where they have their birth.
But Love is indestructible;
Its holy flame for ever burneth,
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth;
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times opprest,
It here is tried and purified,
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the karvest-time of Love is there.
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,
An over-payment of delight!
HOW withered, perished seems the form
The careless eye can find no grace,
Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales,
Till vernal suns and vernal gales
Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast.
Yes, hide beneath the mouldering heap,
In silence let it wait the spring.
Oh! many a stormy night shall close
And Ignorance, with sceptic eye,
As her soft tears the spot bedew.
Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear!
And thou, O virgin Queen of Spring!
Unfold thy robes of purest white,
So Faith shall seek the lowly dust
And watch with patient, cheerful eye;
And bear the long, cold, wintry night,
TO A LADY,
WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL.
TAKE these flowers which, purple waving,
On the ruined rampart grew,
Where, the sons of freedom braving,
Rome's imperial standards flew.
Warriors from the breach of danger
THE violet, in her green-wood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazles mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.