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110 SONGS FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE:
To the mansions of joy and the house of woe, Man is himself his most terrible foe /"
Perhaps it is thus—but tell me no more Of the battle-fields and the flowing gore : The dove, methinks, has extended her wing With the olive branch she is soon to bring. Ah ! hast thou not flown o'er a brighter scene, Where even the hand of the Spoiler hath been ? " I have—I have ! I have scented my breath In the place of sickness, the place of death ; Not where the clarion of war was heard, Not where the breast by its impulse was stirr'd, But in the quiet of a peaceful home I 've seen the brightest descend to the tomb; I have fann'd the consumptive's pallid brow, And breathed over lips of a livid glow, Where the spoiler had set as sure a seal As amid the gloom of the battle-field; Yet kindness and peace shed a holy calm, While I dried the tears with a cooling balm."
How sad is thy story! yet milder far Than the horrid tales of discord and war! Thou tellest of cheering with thy cool breath The dwellings of those who were nigh to death, And hast thou no tales of the stormy main ? Of the gloom that thou carriest there in thy train ?