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PICTURES OF PRIDE. 



Saint Bride's deep chime proclaims time's vagrant hour. 

 And night's dun pall flings sadness o'er the earth : 



Spreading along the sky her dusky power 



And heralding, in gloom, the morning's birth. 



The city is not thronged with busy life : 



No echoing footsteps through her arches sound : 



Hushed is the voice of woe, and care, and strife. 

 The hoofs of prancing steeds'no longer bound. 



E'en from my studio — whence I gaze on thee. 

 New London ! — Mother ! — Queen of Intellect ! 



Can I behold the Carthage of the free — 

 Th' Athena of the brave — and not reflect ? 



Reflect on all that was — feuds that have been 

 Within thy blood-stain'd walls — thine iron gates: 



Our Alfred and our Henrys : — Mary, as Queen : 

 Ehzabeth ! at whose name proud glory wakes ? 



Yet why recount the gothic and the dark : 



Or, tell of those who were not righteous men : 



Of " truth," our ancestors caught not one spark : 

 Nor had they seen Religion's triumph, then. 



She holy Matron ! walked in deepest thought] 

 Amid our rude and wild forefathers, blind ; 



Nor she alone — 'twas Charity, Faith, brought 

 To her aid th' attributes of infant 7nind. 



With " mind," upsprung a new and peerless light. 

 That still, with smiles undying throughout time; 



Beams forth its brilliant glories with delight. 

 Mantling old nature with her frown sublime. 



Whence, rose yon pile, the sanctuary grand. 



For holy — not impenitential priests ; 

 But such, as guided by Religion's hand. 



Eschew the " vforld"— ^flee folly's revel Uiatt, 



