Her son,—­the second of the band,
  The Romans of the rescued land. 
  Where round yon capes the banks descend,
  Long shall the pilgrim’s footsteps bend;
  There, mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh
  There, tears shall dim the patriot’s eye.

  There last he stood.  Before his sight
  Flowed the fair river, free and bright;
  The rising Mart, and isles and bay,
  Before him in their glory lay,—­
  Scenes of his love and of his fame,—­
  The instant ere the death-shot came.

* * * * *

=_George W. Doane, 1799-1859._= (Manual, p. 523.)

From “Evening.”

=_350._=

  Softly now the light of day
  Fades upon my sight away;
  Free from care, from labor free,
  Lord, I would commune with thee.

  Thou, whose all-pervading eye
    Nought escapes, without, within,
  Pardon each infirmity,
    Open fault, and secret sin.

  Soon for me the light of day
  Shall forever pass away;
  Then, from sin and sorrow free,
  Take me, Lord, to dwell with thee!

  Thou who sinless, yet hast known
    All of man’s infirmity;
  Then, from thy eternal throne,
    Jesus, look with pitying eye.

* * * * *

=_George P. Morris, 1801-1864._= (Manual, p. 523.)

=_351._= HIGHLANDS OF THE HUDSON.

  Where Hudson’s wave o’er silvery sands
    Winds through the hills afar,
  Old Crow-nest like a monarch stands,
    Crowned with, a single star. 
  And there amid the billowy swells
    Of rock-ribbed, cloud-capped earth,
  My fair and gentle Ida dwells,
    A nymph of mountain birth.

  The snow-flake that the cliff receives—­
    The diamonds of the showers—­
  Spring’s tender blossoms, buds, and leaves—­
    The sisterhood of flowers—­
  Morn’s early beam, eve’s balmy breeze—­
    Her purity define;—­
  But Ida’s dearer far than these
    To this fond breast of mine.

* * * * *

=_George D. Prentice, 1802-1869._= (Manual, p. 487.)

From “The Mammoth Cave.”

=_352._= CONTRAST OF NATURE WITHOUT.

All day, as day is reckoned on the earth,
I’ve wandered in these dim and awful aisles,
Shut from the blue and breezy dome of heaven,
...  And now
I’ll sit me down upon yon broken rock,
To muse upon the strange and solemn things
Of this mysterious realm. 
All day my steps
Have been amid the beautiful, the wild,
The gloomy, the terrific; crystal founts
Almost invisible in their serene
And pure transparency, high pillared domes
With stars and flowers, all fretted like the halls
Of Oriental monarchs—­rivers dark,
And drear, and voiceless, as Oblivion’s stream,
That flows through Death’s dim vale of silence,—­gulfs