18S0-40.] HUGH PETERS, l(io MY NATIVE LAND. The boat swings from the pebbled shore, Aud proudly drives her prow ; The crested waves roll up before : Yon dark, gray land, I see no more — How sweet it seemeth now ! Thou dark gray land, my Native Land, Thou land of rock and pine, I'm speeding from thy golden sand ; But can I wave a farewell hand To such a shore as thine ? I've gazed upon the golden cloud Which shades thine emerald sod ; Thy hills, which Freedom's share hath plowed. Which nurse a race that have not bowed Their knee to aught but God ; Thy mountain floods, which proudly fling Their waters to the fall — Thy birds, which cut with rushing wing The sky that greets thy coming Spring, And thought thy glories small ; But now ye've shrunk to yon blue line Between the sky and sea, I feel, sweet home, that thou art mine, I feel my bosom cling to thine — That I am part of thee. I see thee blended with the wave, As children see the earth Close up a sainted mother's grave ; They weep for her they cannot save, And feel her holy worth. Thou mountain land — thou land of rock, I'm proud to call thee free ; Thy sons are of the pilgrim stock. And nerved like those who stood the shock At old Thermopylas. The laurel wreaths their fathers won — The children wear them still — Proud deeds those iron men have done! They fought and won at Bennington, And bled at Bunker Hill. There's grandeur in the lightning stroke That rives thy mountain ash; There's glory in thy giant oak. And rainbow beauty in the smoke Where crystal waters dash : There's music in thy winter blast That sweeps the hollow glen ; Less sturdy sons would shi'ink aghast From piercing winds like those thou hast To nurse thine iron men. And thou hast gems ; aye, living pearls ; And flowers of Eden hue : Thy loveliest, are thy bright-eyed girls, Of fairy forms and elfin curls, And smiles like Hermon's dew : They've hearts like those they're born to wed. Too proud to nurse a slave ; They'd scorn to share a monarch's bed, And sooner lay their angel head Deep in their humble grave. And I have left thee. Home, alone, A pilgrim from thy shore ; The wind goes by with hollow moan, I hear it sigh a warning tone, " Ye see your home no more." I'm cast upon the world's wide sea, Torn Hke an ocean weed ; I'm cast away, far, far from thee, I feel a thing I cannot be, A bruised and broken reed. Farewell, my Native Land, farewell ! That wave has hid thee now — My heart is bowed as with a spell. This rending pang ! — would I could tell What ails my throbbing brow ! One look upon that fading streak Which bounds yon eastern sky ; One tear to cool my burning cheek ; And then a word I cannot speak — " My Native Land — Good-by."
