An Ode Pronounced Before the Inhabitants of Boston, September the Seventeenth, 1830

sun looks down in light;
Along the trackless realms of space,
The stars still run their midnight race;
The same green valleys smile, the same rough shore
Still echoes to the same wild ocean's roar:--

But where the bristling night-wolf sprang
Upon his startled prey,
Where the fierce Indian's war-cry rang,
Through many a bloody fray;
And where the stern old Pilgrim prayed
In solitude and gloom,
Where the bold Patriot drew his blade,
And dared a patriot's doom--
Behold! in liberty's unclouded blaze,
We lift our heads, a race of other days.

XXIII.

All gone! the wild beast's lair is trodden out;

Proud temples stand in beauty there;
Our children raise their merry shout,
Where once the death-whoop vexed the air:
The Pilgrim--seek yon ancient place of graves,

Beneath that chapel's holy shade;
Ask, where the breeze the long grass waves,
Who, who within that spot are laid:
The Patriot--go, to