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Led through the desart to the promis'd land ;-
With eager arms the aged stem he clasps,
And with his tears the furrow'd bark bedews:
And still, at midnight-hour, he thinks he hears:
The blissful sound that brake the bondman's

chains, The glorious peal of freedom and of joy!

Did ever law of man a power like this. Display ? power marvellous as merciful, Which, tho' in other ordinances still Most plainly seen, is yet but little mark'd For what it truly is,-a miracle !

down, and when thou risest up. Thou shalt say unto thy son, We were Pharaoh's bondmen in Egypt; and the Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand.”-Deut. vi. 6.

7. 21.

Stupendous, ever new, perform’d at once
In ev'ry region,-yea, on ev'ry sea
Which Europe's navies plow; yes, in all lands
From pole to pole, or civiliz'd or rude,
People there are, to whom the Sabbath morn
Dawns shedding dews into their drooping hearts :
Yes, far beyond the high-heav'd western wave,
Amid COLUMBIA's wildernesses vast,
The words which God in thunder from the mount
Of Sinai spake, are heard, and are obey'd.
Thy children, Scotia, in the desart land,
Driv’n from their homes by fell Monopoly, (16)
Keep holy to the Lord the seventh day.
Assembled under loftiest canopy
Of trees primeval, (soon to be laid low,)
They sing, By Babel's streams we sat and wept..

What strong mysterious links enchain the heart
To regions where the morn of life was spent!
In foreign lands, tho' happier be the clime,
Tho'round our board smile all the friends we love,
The face of nature wears a stranger's look.
Yea, tho' the valley which we lov'd be swept
Of its inhabitants, none left behind,
Not ev’n the poor blind man who sought his bread
From door to door, still, still there is a want;
Yes, ev'n he, round whom a night that knows
No dawn is ever spread, whose native vale
Presented to his closed eyes a blank,-
Deplores its distance now. There well he knew
Each object, tho' unseen; there could he wend
His way guideless thro' wilds and mazy woods;
Each aged tree, spar'd when the forest fell,
Was his familiar friend, from the smooth birch,

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With rind of silken touch, to the rough elm : The three gray stones that mark'd where heroes

lay, Mourn’d by the harp, mourn’d by the melting voice Of Cona, oft his resting-place had been: Oft had they told him that his home was near : The tinkle of the rill, the murmuring So gentle of the brook, the torrent's rusli, The cataract's din, the ocean's distant roar, The echo's answer to his foot or voice, All spoke a language which he understood, All warn’d him of his way. But most he feels Upon the hallow'd morn, the sadd’ning change : No more he hears the gladsome village bell Ring the blest summons to the house of God; And,- for the voice of psalms, loud, solemn,

grand,

That cheer'd his darkling path, as with slow step
And feeble, he toil'd up the spire-topt hill, -
A few faint notes ascend among the trees.

What tho' the cluster'd vine there hardly tempts The traveller's hand; tho’birds of dazzling plume Perch on the loaded boughs;—"Give me thy

woods, (Exclaims the banish'd man,) thy barren woods, Poor ScoTLAND; sweeter there the redd’ning haw, The sloe, or rowan's * bitter bunch, than here The purple grape; more dear the redbreast's note, That mourns the fading year in Scotia’s vales, Than Philomel's, where spring is ever new; More dear to me the redbreast's sober suit,

Mou ntain-ash,

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