English

It comes! the joyful day,
When tyranny's proud sway—
Stern as the grave—
Shall to the ground be hurl'd;
And Freedom's flag, unfurl'd,
Shall wave, throughout the world,
O'er ev'ry slave.

Trump of glad Jubilee!
Echo o'er land and sea,
Freedom for all!
Let the glad tidings fly,
And ev'ry tribe reply,
“Glory to God on high!”
At Slavery's fall.

To thee, dear Jane, with joy I send,
The tribute of a bridal Friend.
Of late I'm grown, quite grave and stupid,
A traitor to the laws of Cupid;
Defy his pow'r, and pointed darts,
With which he wounds poor mortals hearts:
So send to thee this magic charm;
Grant that the spell thy fancy warm.
If nine times drawing thro' the ring,
Can any solid comforts bring,
This may afford a pleasing dream,
Compos'd of Love; delightful theme!
Create a Swain sincere and just,
On whom thou may'st with safety trust;

So small a measure are these gifts of mine
To lay upon the altar of the King.
My genius, when all garnered, shall but bring
A scanty measure of the purer wine.
A wisp of music and a lilting line,
A meagre word of beauty from the store
Of language and her multitude; what more
Have I to offer for Thy love divine?
How shall the moon repay her borrowed ray?
Of one blue flower of England count her gain
From that old, upward look at Dorian skies!
Or those white, curving throats on Biscay Bay

Hail in thy youthful beauty,
In Nature's fairest mien!
With flowery baskets laden,
Be welcome on the scene!

What ho! art thou returning,
Who art so blithe and gay?
Then heartily we greet thee,
And meet thee on the way.

Bethink thee of my maiden;
Ah, dear one, dost thou mind?
That maiden loved me dearly,
And still that maid is kind.

Full many a little flower
I begged for her from thee —
Once more I come entreating: —
What will thine answer be?

Hail in thy youthful beauty,

Jehovah comes! — his foes disperse,
Their hosts are put to flight;
Like smoke they flee before his curse,
They perish at his sight.

As melts the wax before the fire,
Oppressors melt away,
Before Jehovah's burning ire,
In God's avenging day.

Then shall th' oppress'd exult and sing,
To see their God appear;
Hark! hear them shout, and hail their King!
Thus they proclaim him near; —

" Sing ye to God in blissful strains,
Sing praises, spread his fame;

Wake, States of the South! your redemption draws near,
No longer repose in the borders of gloom;
The strength of his chosen in love will appear,
And light shall arise on the verge of the tomb.

The billows that girt you — the wild waves that roar —
The zephyrs that play when the ocean-storms cease —
Shall bear the rich freight to your tempest-toss'd shore,
Shall waft the glad tidings of freedom and peace.

On regions that sit in the darkness of night,
The lands of despair, to oppression a prey,

My heart goes out to France, the Queen in war,
In carnival and love; the gay, the brave.
To that young blue-eyed Breton who would save
A dance for Death or for his Belle Aurore.
Who keeps so purely in his heart the lore
Of love and honor while the tyrant guns
Spume at his wisp of flesh their flaring tons,
White hot from maddened ages gone before.
The world's barometer is in that lad —
That Breton peasant against whom is hurled
The wild, down-leaping chariot of Mars.
When France is laughing all the Earth is glad.

Hark the glad sound! the Savior comes,
The Savior promis'd long;
Let ev'ry heart prepare a throne,
And ev'ry voice a song.

On him the Spirit, largely pour'd,
Exerts its sacred fire;
Wisdom and might and zeal and love
His holy breast inspire.

He comes, the pris'ners to release,
In cruel bondage held;
The gates of brass before him burst,
The iron fetters yield.

He comes, from thickest films of vice
To clear the mental ray,
And on the eye-balls of the blind
To pour celestial day.

The fog is heavy to-night and the sad horns are droning.
What so sad as a bank of mist that cannot weep into rain?
A little, old man comes down the road where you and I are moaning;
A little, old man who sings a song and here is the rune's refrain:
Somewhere, sometime the glory;
Somewhere the sun.
I'll read me on to the end of the story:
God's will be done.

O little, old man you shame me; for the weak oft shame the strong.
The fog is heavy to-night and the sad horns are crying.

Behold the Christian Hero arm'd,
With Helmet, Breast-Plate, Shield!
And be not for his fate alarm'd,
He will maintain the field.

The Sword of Justice will defend
Religion's sacred laws:
And ever prove a constant friend
To Champions in her cause.

The holy Martyrs burnt or slain,
Disgrace fair Hist'ry's page;
Their steady faith defied the pain.
Caus'd by Enthusiasts rage.

By Fire their worth was tried like gold,
Freed from the base alloy;
They sought their Maker to behold