Who doth not see, in that sweet bow of heaven,
Circling around the twilight hills of even,
Religion's light, which o'er the wilds of life
Shoots its pure rays through misery and strife;
Soothes the lone bosom, as it pines in woe,
And turns to heaven this barren world below?
O, what were man, did not her hallowed ray
Disperse, the clouds that thicken on his way!
A weary pilgrim, left in cheerless gloom,
To grope his midnight journey to the tomb;
His life a tempest, death, a wreck forlorn,
In sorrow dying, as in sorrow born.
* * * * *
From "The Tourist"
=_354._= VIEW AT GIBRALTAR.
And from this height, how beauteous to survey
The neighboring shores, the bright cerulean bay:
Myriads of sails are swelling on the deep,
And oars, in myriads, through the waters sweep.
Behold, in peace, all nations here unite,
Their various pennons streaming to the sight:
The red cross glows, the Danish crown appears,
The half-moon rises, and the lion rears,
But mark, bold-towering o'er the conscious wave,
The starry banners of my country brave,
Stream like a meteor to the wooing breeze,
And float all-radiant o'er the sunny seas!
Hail, native flag! for ever mayst thou blow--
Hope to the friend, and terror to the foe!
Again I hail thee, Calpe! on thy steep
I wandered high, and gazed upon the deep!
Nature's best fortress, which no warlike foe,
No martial scheme, can ever overthrow.
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