God treads no more the winepress of His wrath
As once He did alone,
He bids us share with Him the perilous path
The altar and the throne.
When from the iron clash and stormy stress
Which mark His wondrous way,
Shines forth all haloed round with holiness
The rose of perfect day.
ENGLAND.
BY ELIZA COOK.
My heart is pledg'd in wedded faith to England's "Merrie Isle,"
I love each low and straggling cot, each famed ancestral pile;
I'm happy when my steps are free upon the sunny glade,
I'm glad and proud amid the crowd that throng its mart of trade;
I gaze upon our open port, where Commerce mounts her throne,
Where every flag that comes 'ere now has lower'd to our own.
Look round the globe and tell me can ye find more blazon'd names,
Among its cities and its streams, than London and the Thames?
My soul is link'd right tenderly to every shady copse,
I prize the creeping violets, the tall and fragrant hops;
The citron tree or spicy grove for me would never yield,
A perfume half so grateful as the lilies of the field.
Our songsters too, oh! who shall dare to breathe one slighting word,
Their plumage dazzles not--yet say can sweeter strains be heard?
Let other feathers vaunt the dyes of deepest rainbow flush,
Give me old England's nightingale, its robin, and its thrush.
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