But can it be, that well-known form is stark? 
    Can it be true, that burning heart is chill? 
  Oh! can it be that twinkling eye is dark? 
    And that great thunder voice is hush’d and still? 
  Never again upon the famous hill
    Will he preside as monarch of the land,
  With myriad myriads subject to his will;
    Never again shall raise that powerful hand,
To rouse, to warm, to check, to kindle, and command!

  The twinkling eye, so full of changeful light,
    Is dimmed and darkened in a dread eclipse;
  The withering scowl, the smile so sunny bright,
    Alike have faded from his voiceless lips. 
  The words of power, the mirthful, merry quips,
    The mighty onslaught, and the quick reply,
  The biting taunts that cut like stinging whips,
    The homely truth, the lessons grave and high,
All, all are with the past, but cannot, shall not die!

A MYSTERY.

They are dying! they are dying! where the golden corn is growing,
They are dying! they are dying! where the crowded herds are lowing;
They are gasping for existence where the streams of life are flowing,
And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing!

        God of Justice!  God of Power! 
          Do we dream?  Can it be? 
        In this land, at this hour,
          With the blossom on the tree,
        In the gladsome month of May,
        When the young lambs play,
        When Nature looks around
          On her waking children now,
        The seed within the ground,
          The bud upon the bough? 
        Is it right, is it fair,
        That we perish of despair
        In this land, on this soil,
          Where our destiny is set,
        Which we cultured with our toil,
          And watered with our sweat?

        We have ploughed, we have sown
        But the crop was not our own;
        We have reaped, but harpy hands
        Swept the harvest from our lands;
        We were perishing for food,
        When, lo! in pitying mood,
        Our kindly rulers gave
        The fat fluid of the slave,
        While our corn filled the manger
        Of the war-horse of the stranger!

        God of Mercy! must this last? 
          Is this land preordained
        For the present and the past,
          And the future, to be chained,
          To be ravaged, to be drained,
        To be robbed, to be spoiled,
          To be hushed, to be whipt,
          Its soaring pinions clipt,
        And its every effort foiled?

        Do our numbers multiply
        But to perish and to die? 
          Is this all our destiny below,
        That our bodies, as they rot,
        May fertilise the spot
          Where the harvests of the stranger grow?