Art, too, had added strength, and given a grace
That smooths the rugged aspect of thy face.
What wondrous halls along the mountain made!
What trains of cannon in those halls arrayed!
They frown imperious from their lofty state,
Prepared around to deal the scourge of fate.
* * * * *
=_Elijah P. Lovejoy,[81] 1802-1816._=
From "Lines to my Mother."
=_355._=
There is a fire that burns on earth,
A pure and holy flame;
It came to men from heavenly birth,
And still it is the same
As when it burned the chords along
That bore the first-born seraph's song;
Sweet as the hymn of gratitude
That swelled to Heaven when "all was good."
No passion in the choirs above
Is purer than a mother's love.
* * * * *
My mother! I am far away
From home, and love, and thee;
And stranger hands may heap the clay
That soon may cover me;
Yet we shall meet--perhaps not here,
But in yon shining, azure sphere;
And if there's aught assures me more,
Ere yet my spirit fly,
That Heaven has mercy still in store
For such a wretch as I,
'Tis that a heart so good as thine
Must bleed, must burst, along with mine.
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