Bedford inquirer. [volume] (Bedford, Pa.) 1857-1884, 1868-07-31


VERSE.
The London Tines, of July ;, publishes the
subioined:
LoxGFFLLow N ENGLAND.
Welcome to England thou whose strains pro-
| long
The glorious bede-rol of our Saxon song;
1 Ambassador and Pilgrim Bard in one,
/ Fresh from Thy home-the home Of WAsHivGrox,
On hearths as sacred thine own, here stands
The loving welcome that thy name commands;
lIearths swept for thee and garnisbed as a shrine
1 BY trailing garments of thy Muse divine.
Poet Of Nature and Nations know
/ Thy fair fame spans the ocean like bow,
/ Born from the rain that falls into each life,
| kindled by dreams with lovliest fahcies rife;
radiant arch that with prismatic dyes
/ Links the two worlds, its keystone in the skies
The n bIest creatures Of these dreams of thine,
! From Hiawatha to Eyangeline
Here thou wilt find, where'er thy footsteps roam,
Loved as the cherished Lares Of each home.
What prouder refrain heartens to the core
Than thou hast sung in brave EXCELSIOR
Where sounds more gladdening mid this earthly
strife,
Than the sweet clarions of thy Psalm Of Life?
None but the rarest raconfcur may grace
The mimic contest where most yield the place
Say which, for either fairer wreaths produce,
Irving's Astoria thy Flower de Luce?
Which haunted hostel lures more gnests within,
Hawthornc's Seven Gables or thy Wayside Inn?
Turning thy pictured page, what varying dyes
Shine through each iattieed margins new sur
prisel
Here the swarth Blacksmith, smirched with CRIME
and tan,
Tears in his eyes, yet every inch a man.
Here mid the rice field, heaving his last breath,
The poor save-monarch, dreams himselfto death
Here, while without loud raves the tempest's din,
Here, while around the revelers brawl within,
The dying Baron through the graves dark goal,
Seeks Christ's redeeming passport for his soul,
Who hears not now, stormed down among thy
leaves,
The rain that poured like cataracts from the caves
Roared through the kennels, lashed the stream
ing panos,
Flooded the squares, the Streets the courts, the
lanes,
Raging like seas that over some laundering
wreck
Swill thro' the scuPpers from the swimming deck!
Cool, teeming, plentcous, soul-rcfreshing showers,
Quafed by parohed earth and by the thirsting
flowers,
Nor less by those who listened to thy song
As, like Lodoros, thy deluge dashed along,
Where subtler solace than thy gentle voice
From riven hearts can draw till griefs rejoice?
Answer, what oft-rePining voc oerpowers
That lay serene, the Reaper and the Flowers?
So large thy sympathies, thy hand can trace
Charms in each clirue and glories in each race
So Penetrant thy love, its gaze can find
God in the flower, His breathings in the wind,
Mesh with mere hempen coil in Rope work spun
AlI human joys and ills beneath the sun;
Wake with grand echoes Of responsive rhymes
Long silent notes of medieval chimes;
"The diapason Of the clunonade."
Mid purgatorial fires, in heaven, in hell,
Thy dauntless soul hath lately dared to dwell,
Passing DER burning mart where Dante trad
With Firgiis ghost, to Beatrice and God.
Yet, rarely gifted nature to translate,
Reflect not others, thus: tbyself create,
Ring out once moro in thy own golden lines
Life's inner meaning, not the Florentiues-
Thou who hast given thy dreamings to our sight
And syIlabed the Voices Of the Night
Thou who has sung, as none but thou could sing,
The tenger legend of the Angel-K King:
Thou who around with atiluent hand hast thrown
The heavenly largess Of thy benison,
Regarding none as alien to thy breast
Columbias Poet, hail as England's Guest
OK.