Ah! Never Shall The Land Forget.

God Hath Yoked To Guilt Her Pale Tormentor,--misery.

On My Cornice Linger The Ripe Black Grapes Ungathered; Children Fill The Groves With The Echoes Of Their Glee, Gathering Tawny Chestnuts, And Shouting When Beside Them Drops The Heavy Fruit Of The Tall Black-walnut Tree.

Stand Here By My Side And Turn, I Pray, On The Lake Below Thy Gentle Eyes; The Clouds Hang Over It, Heavy And Gray, And Dark And Silent The Water Lies; And Out Of That Frozen Mist The Snow In Wavering Flakes Begins To Flow; Flake After Flake, They Sink In The Dark And Silent Lake.

A Stable, Changeless State, 'twere Cause Indeed To Weep.

Ah! Never Shall The Land Forget How Gushed The Life-blood Of Her Brave -