Page:Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands.djvu/351

 326 MARCH, AT DENMARK HILL.

Beside the convent s wicket-gate

In ancient times it bent, And blossoms still on Asia s sands,

By the roving Arab s tent.

Upon Mount Bernard s cloud-wrapt cliff, Where the bitter tempest blows,

It patient bides the chilling blast Of everlasting snows.

And where our poor, red forest-race, Beside their fathers grave,

Had once a home, its foliage fair Did o er their cabins wave.

It findeth here a genial soil, And putteth forth each morn

A rose-cup in an evergreen, That hath no hidden thorn.

It bloometh for the stranger s hand, And when it shuts at night,

Doth leave behind a secret spell, To make his visions bright.

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��Young children, with their sparkling eyes,

Culled its fresh buds for me, Before they knew its hallowed name

Was Hospitality.

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