Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/95

Rh Are sweetly on our lips, at close of day, At lamp-light, by the hearth-stone. Unforgot Shalt thou remain, for the sweet germs of song Do flourish, when the gauds of wealth and pomp Sink in oblivion. Lo! the risen sun Stays not his course, but o'er the horizon sends The Maker's message. On he goes, to wake The self-same joys and sorrows, that have trod Beside him, from Creation. In his track Spring up the chronicles of days that were, And legends, that the hoary-headed keep In memory's treasure-house, when pitiless war And Arnold's treason, woke the fires that made A people homeless. See, on yonder spot, Where the white column marks the buried brave, Came the poor widow, and the orphan band, Searching mid piles of carnage, for the forms More dear than life. But sure, yon kingly orb, Mid all the zones through which his chariot rolls, Beholds no realm more favored than our own, Here, in this broad green West. So may he find Hands knit in brotherhood, and hearts inspired With love to Him, from whom all blessings flow.