ABSTRACT
The twilight's gift-of sombre hue, All checkered wild and gorgeously
With streaks of crimson, gold and blue; — A sky that strikes the soul with awe,
And, though not brilliant as the sheen, Which in the east at morn we saw,
Is far more glorious, I ween; — So glorious that, when night hath come And shrouded it in deepest gloom, We turn aside with inward pain And pray to see that sky again. Such sight is like the struggle made When freedom bids unbare the blade, And calls from every mountain-glen-
From every hill-from every plain, Her chosen ones to stand like men,
And cleanse their souls from every stain Which wretches, steeped in crime and blood, Have cast upon the form of God. Though peace like morning's golden hue,
With blooming groves and waving fields, Is mildly pleasing to the view,
And all the blessings that it yields Are fondly welcomed by the breast
Which finds delight in passion's rest, That breast with joy foregoes them all, While listening to Freedom's call. Though red the carnage,—though the strife Be filled with groans of parting life,— Though battle's dark, ensanguined skies Give echo but to agonies-
Where tempting fiend with guileful taunt A resting-place would ne'er have found,—
And hold it in enraptured fires, Such as a dream of heaven inspires, — So seem the glad waves to have sought
From every place its richest treasure, And borne it to that lovely spot,
To found thereon a home of pleasure; — A home where balmy airs might float
Through spicy bower and orange grove; Where bright-winged birds might turn the note
Which tells of pure and constant love; Where earthquake stay its demon force, And hurricane its wrathful course; Where nymph and fairy find a home, And foot of spoiler never come.
