Has Nature, in her calm, majestic march,

      Faltered with age at last? does the bright sun

      Grow dim in heaven? or, in their far blue arch,

      Sparkle the crowd of stars, when day is done,

      Less brightly? when the dew-lipped Spring comes on,

      Breathes she with airs less soft, or scents the sky

      With flowers less fair than when her reign begun?

      Does prodigal Autumn, to our age, deny

      The plenty that once swelled beneath his sober eye?

      Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth

      In her fair page; see, every season brings

      New change, to her, of everlasting youth;

      Still the green soil, with joyous living things,

      Swarms, the wide air is full of joyous wings,

      And myriads, still, are happy in the sleep

      Of ocean's azure gulfs, and where he flings

      The restless surge. Eternal Love doth keep,

      In his complacent arms, the earth, the air, the deep.

      Will then the merciful One, who stamped our race

      With his own image, and who gave them sway

      O'er earth, and the glad dwellers on her face,

      Now that our swarming nations far away

      Are spread, where'er the moist earth drinks the day,

      Forget the ancient care that taught and nursed

      His latest offspring? will he quench the ray

      Infused by his own forming smile at first,

      And leave a work so fair all blighted and accursed?

      Oh, no! a thousand cheerful omens give

      Hope of yet happier days, whose dawn is nigh.

      He who has tamed the elements, shall not live

      The slave of his own passions; he whose eye

      Unwinds the eternal dances of the sky,

      And in the abyss of brightness dares to span

      The sun's broad circle, rising yet more high,

      In God's magnificent works his will shall scan —

      And love and peace shall make their paradise with man.

      Sit at the feet of History – through the night

      Of years the steps of virtue she shall trace,

      And show the earlier ages, where her sight

      Can pierce the eternal shadows o'er their face; —

      When, from the genial cradle of our race,

      Went forth the tribes of men, their pleasant lot

      To choose, where palm-groves cooled their dwelling-place,

      Or freshening rivers ran; and there forgot

      The truth of heaven, and kneeled to gods that heard them not.

      Then waited not the murderer for the night,

      But smote his brother down in the bright day,

      And he who felt the wrong, and had the might,

      His own avenger, girt himself to slay;

      Beside the path the unburied carcass lay;

      The shepherd, by the fountains of the glen,

      Fled, while the robber swept his flock away,

      And slew his babes. The sick, untended then,

      Languished in the damp shade, and died afar from men.

      But misery brought in love; in passion's strife

      Man gave his heart to mercy, pleading long,

      And sought out gentle deeds to gladden life;

      The weak, against the sons of spoil and wrong,

      Banded, and watched their hamlets, and grew strong;

      States rose, and, in the shadow of their might,

      The timid rested. To the reverent throng,

      Grave and time-wrinkled men, with locks all white,

      Gave laws, and judged their strifes, and taught the way of right;

      Till bolder spirits seized the rule, and nailed

      On men the yoke that man should never bear,

      And drave them forth to battle. Lo! unveiled

      The scene of those stern ages! What is there?

      A boundless sea of blood, and the wild air

      Moans with the crimsoned surges that entomb

      Cities and bannered armies; forms that wear

      The kingly circlet rise, amid the gloom,

      O'er the dark wave, and straight are swallowed in its womb.

      Those ages have no memory, but they left

      A record in the desert – columns strown

      On the waste sands, and statues fallen and cleft,

      Heaped like a host in battle overthrown;

      Vast ruins, where the mountain's ribs of stone

      Were hewn into a city; streets that spread

      In the dark earth, where never breath has blown

      Of heaven's sweet air, nor foot of man dares tread

      The long and perilous ways – the Cities of the Dead!

      And tombs of monarchs to the clouds up-piled —

      They perished, but the eternal tombs remain —

      And the black precipice, abrupt and wild,

      Pierced by long toil and hollowed to a fane; —

      Huge piers and frowning forms of gods sustain

      The everlasting arches, dark and wide,

      Like the night-heaven, when clouds are black with rain.

      But idly skill was tasked, and strength was plied,

      All was the work of slaves to swell a despot's pride.

      And Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign

      O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke;

      She left the down-trod nations in disdain,

      And flew to Greece, when Liberty awoke,

      New-born, amid those glorious vales, and broke

      Sceptre and chain with her fair youthful hands:

      As rocks are