Mrs. Felicia D. Hemans

The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit read more

The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.
. . . .
The flames roll'd on--he would not go
Without his Father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hushed hour,
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Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hushed hour,
Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced!

Thou hast fair forms that move
With queenly tread;
Thou hast proud fanes above
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Thou hast fair forms that move
With queenly tread;
Thou hast proud fanes above
Thy mighty dread.
Yet wears thy Tiber's shore
A mournful mien:--
Rome, Rome, thou art no more
As thou hast been.

There shall be no more snow
No weary noontide heat,
So we lift our trusting eyes
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There shall be no more snow
No weary noontide heat,
So we lift our trusting eyes
From the hills our Fathers trod:
To the quiet of the skies:
To the Sabbath of our God.

I come, I come! ye have called me long,
I come o'er the mountain with light and song:
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I come, I come! ye have called me long,
I come o'er the mountain with light and song:
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves, opening as I pass.