THE VISIONIST. AFTER A PICTURE OF A GIRL, NEWLY AWAKENED, AND IN A MUSING ATTITUDE. SHE has been dreaming!—and her thoughts are, still, The forms we call-but may not chase at will, That paints all visions in the hues of truth! OH! that the Spirit of thy votive song Go forth where despots sway, and dastards yield, -Oh! for the mystic harp of Kedron's vale, As erst, in Israel, when, at God's command, Oh! for a spell-like her's who called the dead, And brought the prophet from his dreamless bed,— To wake the spirit of the martyred brave, And break the slumber of Riego's grave! -Oh! for the warrior-youth of Judah's line, A David to "go up"-with staff and sling, Smite the Goliath of a sceptered Gath! Alas, the lovely land!-where fetters bind It comes--it comes !—like a far trumpet-blast, I hear the tumult and the stir, at last! Through the dull distance of a few short years, The gathering-cry is borne to prophet ears, When nations shall go forth, like water poured, To see an Agag hewn before the Lord, And Freedom lift, again, her starry crest, High o'er the new-born Hebron of the West! A LINES WRITTEN IN A SKETCH-BOOK. How vain to blot this snowy leaf With human hope or human fear! A single record here! And yet, the very lightest dream That e'er was fancy's cherished theme, The frailest hope that ever played, The fleetest thought that ever strayed, |