1831.] [ 367 ] 



FIRST OF APRIL ODE TO AMERICA : 

 GENUINE BY A NATIVE POET. 



LAND of sublime posterity ! 



Great scorner of the present time ! 

 Thou proud, magnificent to be 



Of all earth's climes the proudest clime ; 



To thee what's England ? An old drudge ; 



A blacksmith shoemaker coalheaver ; 

 Her volumes perishable fudge, 



While even thy ballads last for ever. 



What's Ireland, and her patriot sons, 

 Compared, thou pearl of earth, to thee, 



Where every banished rascal runs, 

 And cheats the world at liberty ? 



Where shall the fire-winged Muse find scope, 



What ocean give the mighty shell, 

 What lungs of more than brass shall ope, 



Thy grand futurity to tell ? 



Bold virgin, vestured in a shroud 



Red with a thousand future fields, 

 Thy only crown shall be a cloud, 



Such as the smoke of empires yields. 



Thy throne shall " crest the mount of Time," 



From whose eternal brow the flood 

 Shall pour, to sweep the world's last crime, 



A cataract of flame and blood. 



Thou'lt speak as nations never spoke ; 



Thy words be lightning looks be thunder : 

 All earth shall seek thy glorious yoke 



Nay, e'en the Chicasaws knock under. 



Thy bed shall be the rushing storm ; 



Thy serenade, the ocean's roar ; 

 Thy guard, Destruction's daemon form, 



Thy supper, gunpowder and gore ! 



Thy softest smile shall be the look 



Of seas where sweeps the fierce typhoon, 



When Beelzebub comes down to cook 

 His rice in India's grim monsoon ! 



What if the recreant nations laugh, 



And call thee slaver, tinker still 

 Call thee half-Irish, Indian half 



Thou'lt ask but time to pay their bill. 



What are some dozen centuries 



In lives of nations such as thou ? 

 Give thee but time, and thou shalt rise, 



While Europe is, what thou art now. 



I see thy fleets the ocean crowd, 



A hundred thousand of the line ! 

 With every flag before them bowed 



Earth Portsmouth Plymouth thine, all thine ! 



