POETRY. 643 



These, at the panicidal pyre. 



Thy Martyrs sanctified in fire; 



And with the generous blood they spilt 



Wash'd from thy soil their murderers' gnilt, 



Cancell'd the cui'se, which Vengeance sped. 



And left a blessing in its stead. 



— Can words, can numbers, count the price 



Paid for this little Paradise. ? 



Never, O never be it lost, 



The land is worth tlie jirice it cost ! 



I love Thee, when thy Sabbath dawns 



O'er woods and mountains, dales and lawns, 

 And streams, that spaikle while they run. 

 As if their fountain were the Sun : 

 When, hand in hand, thy tribes repair. 

 Each to their chosen House of Prayer, 

 And all in peace and freedom call 

 On Him, who is the Lord of all. 



I love Thee, — when my Soul can feel 

 The Sei'aph-ardours of thy zeal : 

 Thy Charities, to none confined. 

 Bless, like the sun, the rain, the wind ; 

 Thy schools the human brute shall raise. 

 Guide erring Youth in Wisdom's ways. 

 And leave, when \ve are turn'd to dust, 

 A generation of the Just. 



I love Thcc, — when 1 see thee stand. 

 The Hope of every other land ; 

 A sea-mark in the tide of Time, 

 Rearing to heaven thy broiv sublime ; 

 Whence beam.s of Gospel-sjdendour shed 

 A sacred halo round thine head ; 

 And Gentiles from afar beliold 

 (Not as on Sinai's rocks of old) 

 GOO, — from eternity coiiceal'd, — 

 In his own light, on THEE rcveal'd. 



I love Thee, — w'hen I hear thy voice 

 Bid a despairing Woild lejoice. 

 And loud from shore to shore proclaim, 

 In every tongue, ftles-iah's name ; 

 That name, at which, from sea to sea. 

 All nations yet shall bow tlie knee. 



I love Thee, — next to Fleaven above. 

 Land of my Fathers ! theo I love : 



And 



