 | The battle of Niagara |  |
209
THE MINSTREL.
Oh waken, my Harp! to the marching of song!Oh scatter the clouds that are brooding around thee;
Look forth in thy might, while the tempest is strong,
Nor reel in thy strength, as thou movest along,
Sublime on the winds, where my young spirit found thee!
O, loosen thy numbers in pride,
Let them triumph along on the tide,
That bears the last links of the fetters that bound thee!
Away with the pall that envelops thy form!
Abroad o'er the hills let thy genius storm:
O burst the bright garlands that shrine thee:
O scatter thy jessamine blossoms in air!
And the Tempest herself shall twine thee,
Of the long wild grass, and the mountain's rank hair—
A wreath that is worthy the brow of Despair!
Such chaplets at night, in the wind, I have seen,
On the rock-rooted fir, and the blasted green,
That tell where the anger of heaven hath been:
When a thick blue light on their barrenness hung;
When the thunders pealed, and the cliff-tops rung,
And the bending oak in the cold rain swung.
| The battle of Niagara | |