WHERE IS THE SLAVE.
Oh, where's the slave so lowly,
Condemned to chains unholy,
Who, could he burst
His bonds at first,
Would pine beneath them slowly?
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,
Would wait till time decayed it,
When thus its wing
At once may spring
To the throne of Him who made it?
Farewell, Erin.--farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!
Less dear the laurel growing,
Alive, untouched and blowing,
Than that, whose braid
Is plucked to shade
The brows with victory glowing
We tread the land that bore us,
Her green flag glitters o'er us,
The friends we've tried
Are by our side,
And the foe we hate before us.
Farewell, Erin,--farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!
COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Tho' the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Thro' joy and thro' torment, thro' glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I'll be, mid the horrors of this,--
Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too!
'TIS GONE, AND FOR EVER.
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