In joy and gladness on ye go
My country's pleasant streams;
And oft through scenes as fair ye flow
As bless the Poet's dreams.
From hills, where stately forests rear
Their heads the breeze to brave —
From dark morass, or fountain clear,
You roll to ocean's wave.

The noble Lakes your strength supply,
And now the crystal spring,
Where undisturb'd the wild birds fly,
Or bathe the weary wing.

When love and the fireside inspired,
Words dropped from his eloquent lips
Like music from the golden lyre
Swept by Apollo's finger-tips.

When love and the fireside inspired,
Words dropped from his eloquent lips
Like music from the golden lyre
Swept by Apollo's finger-tips.

Tired at length of crying,
Laughing, cooing, sighing,
The baby lies so qui't and still,
Scarce breathing in his sleep;
The mother watches, half-inclined
To hide her face and weep.

Tired at length of crying,
Laughing, cooing, sighing,
The baby lies so qui't and still,
Scarce breathing in his sleep;
The mother watches, half-inclined
To hide her face and weep.

I wander by the shore of life,
Enchanted by the voices from the sea;
Forever trying — like a child —
In vain, to understand its mystery.

I wander by the shore of life,
Enchanted by the voices from the sea;
Forever trying — like a child —
In vain, to understand its mystery.

Room for the Dead! your living hands may pile
Treasures of Art the stately tents within;
Beauty may grace them with her richest smile,
And Genius there spontaneous plaudits win.
But yet, amidst the tumult and the din
Of gathering thousands, let me audience crave: —
Place claim I for the Dead — 'twere mortal sin
When banners o'er our Country's treasures wave,
Unmark'd to leave the wealth safe garner'd in the Grave.

The Fields may furnish forth their lowing kine,
The Forest spoils in rich abundance lie,

The sky bends over in a sweet
Forgiveness; earth is filled with light;
And mellow autumn hues, soft winds
That croon of summer lands; and thro'
The brooding stillness comes a strain
Of music, and, as leaves are swept
Upon the river's tide away,
My thoughts drift off and on to God.

The sky bends over in a sweet
Forgiveness; earth is filled with light;
And mellow autumn hues, soft winds
That croon of summer lands; and thro'
The brooding stillness comes a strain
Of music, and, as leaves are swept
Upon the river's tide away,

All hail to the day when the Britons came over,
And planted their standard, with sea-foam still wet,
Around and above us their spirits will hover,
Rejoicing to mark how we honor it yet.

Beneath it the emblems they cherished are waving,
The Rose of Old England the roadside perfumes;
The Shamrock and Thistle the north winds are braving,
Securely the Mayflower blushes and blooms.

Chorus .

Forbear, God of Love , torment me no more!
Enough I've endur'd, give your Tyranny o'er!
Still must my fond Heart be for ever the Prize
Of Cloi 's, or Daphne 's, or Phillis's Eyes?

Must every Beauty , and every Grace
For me have a Charm? must you haunt ev'ry Place?
In Country , in Town ; in the Park , at the Play
You lead, mighty Power , my Fancy astray.

Of all the deep Wounds you e'er gave me before,
None deeper than this, since I Phaebe adore:

Record of War, behold yon little Isle,
Whose brow is crown'd by many a mouldering pile,
Where groups of buildings sinking to decay
Throw their dark shadows o'er the narrow bay,
Which, with a mirror's smoothness, brightly shines,
While the last ray of summer's sun reclines-
Upon its placid breast—where the blue sky,
And blended rocks, and groves, reflected lie.
As round the winding path we onward stroll
Beyond the Isle the Arm's clear waters roll,
Along whose eastern margin spots of green
And rural cottages fill up the scene.

Flow on bright spirit of a pleasant vale —
Type of the social life its fruits sustain:
With steady strength thy noiseless waves prevail
O'er links that check, and fret, but ne'er restrain
Thy gentle passage through the smiling plain;
Till, blent with other streams, thy beauties fade,
Thy folds are lost within the boundless main:
As they who tread thy banks, in smiles arrayed,
Shall, mingling with their God, forget the forms he made.

Sweet River — 'tis not that the sunbeams rest
Like Lovers' thoughts upon thy swelling tide,