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Or soar aloft to be the Spangled Skies,
And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes!
As when the Savage, who his drowsy frame
Had bask'd beneath the Sun's unclouded flame,
Awakes amid the troubles of the air,
The skiey deluge, and white lightning's glare—
Aghast he scours before the tempest's sweep,
And sad recalls the funny hour of sleep:—
So tost by storms along Life's wild'ring way
Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day,
When by my native brook I wont to rove
While Hope with kisses nurs'd the Infant Love.
Dear native brook! like Peace, so placidly
Smoothing thro' fertile fields thy current meek!
