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Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted came;

Not with the roll of the stirring drums,

And the trumpet that sings of fame :

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear ;

They shook the depths of the desert gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard and the sea!

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free.

The ocean-eagle soar'd

From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roar'dThis was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair,

Amidst that pilgrim band ;--
Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love's truth
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-
They sought a faith's pure shrine !

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod!

They have left unstain'd what there they foundFreedom to worship God.


And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside forever ;-it may be a sound-

A tone of music-summer's breath, or spring

A flower-a leaf-the ocean-which may wound-
Striking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.


Childe Harold.

power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore, And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken

From some bright former state, our own no more; Is not this all a mystery ?--Who shall say

Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way?

The sudden images of vanish'd things,

That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why;
Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings,
Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by,
A rippling wave-the dashing of an oar—
A flower scent floating past our parents' door;

A word-scarce noted in its hour perchance,
Yet back returning with a plaintive tone;

A smile-a sunny or a mournful glance,

Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown; Are not these mysteries when to life they start, And press vain tears in gushes from the heart?

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams,
Calling up shrouded faces from the dead,
And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams,

Familiar objects brightly to o'erspread;

And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear,-

These are night's mysteries-who shall make them clear?

And the strange inborn sense of coming ill,

That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast, In a low tone which nought can drown or still,

Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest; Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall? Why shakes the spirit thus ?-'tis mystery all!

Darkly we move--we press upon the brink

Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not; Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think,

Are those whom death has parted from our lot! Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are madeLet us walk humbly on, but undismay'd!

Humbly-for knowledge strives in vain to feel
Her way
amidst these marvels of the mind;
Yet undismay'd-for do they not reveal

Th' immortal being with our dust entwin'd ?— So let us deem! and e'en the tears they wake Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake.

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