O'er the young soul. They deemed not that those lines,
Graved so indelibly, that all the storms
And water-floods of Time erase them not,
Which even stern Death peruses when he seals
The scroll of life up for the judgment-bar,
Were from a mother's pencil.
Ye have judged,
That 'mid a nation's elements, her hand
Might cast a healthful leaven, and her lip,
Even from the mouldering pillow of the grave,
Reach with its dove-like, heaven-taught eloquence,
A race unborn. According to your faith
Be your reward. And may the glorious voice
Of liberty, from Andes' cloud-wreathed crown,
Through every region whence your rivers hoard
Their ocean tribute, go with godlike strength,
Wakening new nations to Jehovah's praise.
LADY ROSSE.
Benefactions were sent from England, by this benevolent lady to aid in the erection of Chapels in the destitute villages of Ohio.
Lady, thy name is with the green-rob'd West,
Where bold Ohio drinks his tribute-streams,
Where unshorn forests rear the cloud-wrapt crest,
And the New World like her of Eden seems
To muse of Heaven, with sweet majestic air;
Lady! thy name is there.
