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Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this,—
Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too!

Forget not the Field.

Forget not the field where they perish'd,

The truest, the last of the brave,

All gone-and the bright hope we cherish'd
Gone with them, and quench'd in their grave!

Oh! could we from death but recover

Those hearts as they bounded before,
In the face of high heav'n to fight over
That combat for freedom once more;-

Could the chain for an instant be riven
Which tyranny flung round us then,
No, 'tis not in Man, nor in Heaven,
To let Tyranny bind it again!

But 'tis past and, tho' blazon'd in story

The name of our Victor may be, Accurst is the march of that glory

Which treads o'er the hearts of the free.

Far dearer the grave or the prison,
Illumed by one patriot name,

Than the trophies of all, who have risen
On Liberty's ruins to fame.

My gentle Harp.

My gentle Harp, once more I waken
The sweetness of thy slumbering strain;

In tears our last farewell was taken,
And now in tears we meet again.

No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,

But, like those Harps whose heav'nly skill

Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,
Thou hang'st upon the willows still.