Yet, the tears gush unbidden, when breathing adieu,—­
With the change of our years, our hearts are changed too! 
And, haply, the world, with its coldness, will chill
My feelings at length, as bleak winter the rill.

Adieu to thy scenes, adieu to thee now! 
There is grief in my spirit—­there is gloom on my brow—­
Though Fancy may paint all thy beauty once more,
The days that have flitted, she cannot restore.

VIRGINIA.

Thy soil, Virginia! is all hallowed ground,
  Made such by steps of patriots; thy high fame,
Alway unto our ears, a glorious sound,
  Kindles, in all high hearts, heroic flame.

I walk beneath thy forests, high and lone,
  I hear a voice that sinks into my heart,
The voice of fetterless Liberty; the tone
  Which bids the flame of patriotism start.

Greece was the land of heroes, and her soil
  Is sacred with the deathless memory
Of martyred virtue, which on Death could smile,
  At Marathon and proud Thermopylae: 

Gray Rome shall never lose the magic charm,
  That valor’s fire can pour along a land;
That charm shall bid the hearts of mankind warm,
  Long after her last stone hath ceased to stand: 

Yet, thou, Virginia! art a prouder land,
  For when thy hills become red shrines to Right;
Thy plains become the spots, where, smiling, stand,
  The angels, gentle Peace and true Delight.

And now, how fair thy homes! on every hand,
  Thy cities and thy country domes arise,
From mountains vast, to ocean’s shelly strand,
  And bring a pride into our gazing eyes!

How brave thy polished sons! their hearts how free! 
  How far above the plotting of the mean! 
How they contemn all base chicanery,
  And proudly move, as men, through every scene!

And when thy daughters, an angelic train,
  Roam mid thy flowery walks, how sweet their love! 
And when they speak—­the sound seems like a strain,
  That wander’d from a blissful clime above!

Immortal land! my soul is proud, to think
  I yet can walk upon thy mother soil,
And, willing that her mouldering frame may sink,
  Back to thy breast, after its lifetime toil.

WATOGA.

Oh, think not that the polished breast,
  Only, can feel the fire of love,
Pure as the flames that brightly rest
  In bosoms of the realms above. 
Yes! often in the rudest form,
  A heart may be, more clear and bright
Than ever lent the loveliest charm
  To goddess of the Festal light. 
Come, hear a story of the time,
  When this wide land was one green bower,
The roving Red man’s Eden-chine,
  Where bloomed the wildest flower. 
The great ships brought a wondrous race,
  One evening o’er the ocean beach;
Strange was the pallor of their face,