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15

MY FIRST SONNET.

Hail to the Christian! Bold is he, to stand
On danger's rock, undaunted, to pursue
The paths of right. What power shall him subdue?
Not thine, all-shunn'd Misfortune! though thy hand
Waves the keen edge of hunger as a brand;
Nor thine, Prosperity, whose magic dew
Melts the iced rock to water! He shall view
Th' elect of God, with them walk hand in hand.
His emblem is the mountain, capp'd with snow,
And gnarl'd with forests; by tempestuous fire
Above scourged vainly; and assail'd below
By ocean's vainly storm-conflicting ire;
Th' Eternal Mountain! that, while tides shall flow,
Will commune with the stars, and bid his pines aspire.