Last night, without a voice, this Vision spake
Fear to my Spirit--passion that might seem
To lie dissevered from our present theme;
Yet do I love my Country--and partake
Of kindred agitations for her sake;
She visits oftentimes my midnight dream;
Her glory meets me with the earliest beam
Of light, which tells that Morning is awake:
If aught impair her beauty or destroy,
Or but forebode destruction, I deplore
With filial love the sad vicissitude;
If she hath fallen and righteous Heaven restore
The prostrate, then my spring-time is renewed,
And sorrow bartered for exceeding joy.
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