With what a doubly glorious ray
His smile will light that sky
Where ransom'd souls rejoicing lay
Their robes of mourning by.
JUDGE TRUMBULL.
I saw him in his reverie. Night had drawn
Dense curtains o'er the slumbering, snow-rob'd earth,
And a lone lamp its fitful lustre threw
Upon his musing brow. 'Twas mark'd by age,
And thought profound, perchance, with sadness ting'd,
Yet from the piercing eye that beauty beam'd
Which wrinkled Time respecteth.
This was he,
Whose shaft of Wit had touch'd the epic strain
With poignant power, the father of the harp,
In his own native vales. He seem'd to muse
As if those lov'd retreats did spread themselves
Again before his eye. The sighing wind
Through the long branches of those ancient trees
Where first his boyhood lisp'd the lore of song,
Doth lull his soul. Then brighter visions come,
A sound of music rises. 'Tis thy voice
Connecticut! as when by vernal rains
Surcharg'd, it swell'd in tuneful murmurs round
The vine-clad mansion, where his children grew.
But lo! the clangor of yon mighty lakes
Holding hoarse conflict with the winged storm
Breaks up the melody. And is it so?
