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I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go,
And my pulse is getting' low:
In treading its gloomy way;
To see the young so gay. —N. P. Willis.
MY NATIVE LAND.
There lies my loved, my native land—
All perfect from its Maker's hand,
And far removed from thrones and slaves,
There Freedom's banner proudly waves.
The frigid and the torrid clime,
The vale, the mountain-top sublime,
There linked in union's golden chain,
Bear witness to her vast domain.
Her mountains look o'er realms serene,
And mightiest rivers roll between,
While o'er old Ocean's farthest deep
Her hanner'd navies proudly sweep.
On Plymouth's rock the pilgrim lands,
While warring tribes in countless bands
A few brief years have rolled away,
And those dark warriors—where are they 1
And where are those, the heroic few,
Their voice still rings—their spirit too
For in their sons still burn those fires
That freedom kindled in their sires.
;Tis something, though it be not fame,
To feel no secret blush of shame
Then let us to our sons transmit
A land and name unsullied yet.
To us was left, in deathless trust,
The ashes of the brave and just,
And in our hearts the courage dwells
"Which human power with scorn repels.
We've not to weep o'er glory fled;
We've not to brood o'er servile wo;
To shield us from a living foe.
The standard which our sires unfurled,
Now floats o'er half the western world,
And long shall wave, triumphant, free,
O'er dome and tower, o'er land and sea!
For me—whatever be my fate,
Shall o'er each thought predominate,
And through each pulse unceasing thrill.
My prayer, with life's last ebbing sand,
Shall be for thee, my native land!