Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/57

Mark, by soft shades, and flowers carest,
The mansion-house in beauty drest;
Above, to brave the tempest's shock,
The lonely tower, that crowns the rock;
Beneath, the lake, whose waters dark
Divide before the gliding bark,
With snowy sail and busy oar,
Moving with music to the shore:—
And say, while musing o'er the place
Where art to nature lends her grace,
The crimes that blast the fleeting span
Of erring, suffering, wandering man,
Unfeeling pride, and cold disdain,
The heart that wills another's pain,
Pale envy's glance, the chill of fear,
And war and discord come not here.

How sweet, around yon silent lake,
As friendship guides, your way to take,
And cull the plants, whose glowing heads
Bend meekly o'er their native beds,
And own the Hand that paints the flower,
That deals the sunshine and the shower,
That bears the sparrow in its fall,
Is kind, and good, and just to all;
Or see the sun, with rosy beam
First gild the tower, the tree, the stream,
And moving to his nightly rest,
Press through the portal of the west,